


Five Elements

by vanishing_time



Category: House M.D.
Genre: 5+1 Things, Angst, Biting, Cutting, Dirty Talk, Drug Use, First Meetings, First Time, Fluff, Friendship/Love, Hallucinations, Hallucinogens, LSD, Love at First Sight, M/M, Masturbation, Mild Blood, Mirror Sex, Post-Break Up, Post-Series, Pre-Series, Rough Sex, Sexual Fantasy, Smut, Some het stuff but not too much
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-14
Updated: 2016-06-28
Packaged: 2018-04-26 03:07:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 25,226
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4987753
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vanishing_time/pseuds/vanishing_time
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five times they made love through their relationship.<br/>From the beginning to the end.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Air

**Author's Note:**

> This fic started as a drabble because I wanted to write sex with a little fluff and angst, but then it got out of hand to become a series of brief flashes of their lives. I always associated with the trope that they fell in love at first sight, and had their relationship off-and-on through the years, so this is my version.  
> Mostly emotional smut, don't expect too much plot. :) Contains spoilers if you haven't finished the series.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The first time they make love they barely know each other.

He’s still in that delicate age when most people are partying, having part-time jobs, making friends and having one-night stands; but instead he's working his ass off in two jobs, starting a residency in internal medicine while wearing shirts a size too small. And he’s married. Well, not for long now, he thinks as he’s staring at an envelop with the names and addresses of two attorneys on it, not that kind of attorneys he needs right now, not that kind of he ever wanted anything to do with.

"Shit."

Wilson throws himself down to a chair, leans his head against the bars and stares at the cop, massaging his stiff, bruised fingers. He’s done so many things he should have waited with, rushing towards adulthood; it turned out to be more exhausting and less worth it than he could’ve guessed. No surprise it bursted out of him. And now he’s betrayed, the divorce papers are burning his skin through his suit. He didn’t deserve this. He didn’t.

But then a man with a pair of deep blue eyes is there, unexpected and unexplainable, appearing out of nowhere, coming into his life like deus ex machina. He’s new and unfamiliar, yet Wilson gets into his car without hesitation, feeling like they've known each other for a lifetime, and when they talk, it‘s as satisfying as a good meal or good sex. Their conversations give him so much, and after the initial small talk and mandatory information exchanging they have all the important things to discuss as the wind is tearing their hair; their fields of studies and the collapse of Gorbachev’s empire and Dr Seuss’s death and Jimi Hendrix’s latest album, stopping at a bar and drinking so much he can't even count the whiskeys in the end.

"You better pay me a few rounds, you cost me a fortune," House says as he's playing with an ice cube, and Wilson smiles and doesn't really understand what is happening to him and why, but it feels perfect in every way, so perfect that from time to time he can almost forget the fact that he’s going to be divorced soon.

House fills the voids in his mind, sharing his views, completing or questioning his perspectives of almost everything; he jokes a lot, tells Wilson random trivia about exotic animals and quantum mechanics, about his childhood spent in different countries, occasionally spicing his sentences with foreign phrases to flaunt; but Wilson doesn't fall behind him and bombs him with pop cultural references and stories of his tennis team in high school and quotes from the writings of Umberto Eco and Thoreau he read as an idealist teenager, anecdotes of med school and his own ordinary childhood that seems to interest House; and he asks House about his residency and his fellowship in nephrology and House speaks about them, and he later mentions a dark haired girl he shared a night with, and whom he seems to cherish; and Wilson tells him about his family and his teenage loves and Sam and his two jobs and the sleepless nights he had to work through to support themselves; and finally House tells him about his father, smiling a bitter little smile when Wilson gets angry for him.

It’s late night, and they sit in comfortable silence in a pub. House lights a cigar, puffing lazily, and he catches Wilson staring with a gloomy face at the envelop in his briefcase; and without warning House grabs it and throws it out the window, and Wilson is shocked, but after a moment he laughs like a maniac as the divorce papers are swept far away by the wind, and he notices that his heart is eased a little.

They continue their drinking tour across the pubs of New Orleans, and they drunk drive and laugh and argue about the AIDS epidemic and monster truck accidents, and they are yelling so loudly they’re kicked out of the next bar, and they keep shouting on the street before House suddenly laughs it off, and Wilson finds himself also grinning.

"We'll get us both arrested for all these decibels," he says, trying to see through the dimness of inebriation.

"You can always find interesting people in jail," House answers, " _right, fuckers?_ ", he adds with a deafening roar just for the sheer joy of it; and as they drive home, Wilson is thinking about how fascinated he is by House’s way of thinking, his talent, his bad guy mindset, wondering what a man of his age would find interesting in him. Their minds perfectly complement each other’s, and he feels like he just got back his arm that he didn't realize was missing. Like a blind man who sees light for the first time.

 

And later, they add colors to it.

 

"Ever been high on acid?" House asks, blatantly as always as they are sitting in the armchairs of House’s hotel room the next day, a lazy, hazy Sunday afternoon. They have all the time in the world; there’s still one day left of the convention they both know they will skip.

"What? N-no, never," Wilson says, staring stunned at House, eyebrows rising towards his hairline.

"Wanna try?" House fumbles in his backpack, long legs not moving from the table. "Believe me, it’s not bad. And you seem like someone who'd be into it. It will be fun, and I‘ll be your guide."

A questioning glare and a half-smile, and Wilson just stares at him, mouth gaping in disbelief and insecurity.

"Why am I not surprised that you have something like this. What kind of a doctor are you anyway?"

"Oh come on, don't be so tight-assed. You need to let go all the shit." Intense blue gaze burning into his own. "You trust me?"

Wilson releases a nervous laughter. "Is there a reason I shouldn't?"

"Well, you barely know me, but don't let that scare you," House says matter-of-factly while fumbling with a small pack of foil, and Wilson chuckles softly in answer.

"Yeah, but it doesn't feel that way."

But he does trust him. Oh yes, how he trusts him.

"Then open up," House says, and when he does, he places a tiny blue square on his tongue, and then on his own. "Don’t swallow, just let it melt."

Wilson chuckles with embarrassment, fear and excitement. "And what does this thing do, shows me the face of God?"

"Oh no. I don't think there's a God." Another half-smirk. "I used to look for him. Look for something beyond _this,_ found nothing godlike. But maybe you'll catch a glimpse of something else just as interesting."

Wilson stares at him for a moment.

"So you are an addict _and_ an atheist? The things I get to know…"

House just smirks.

"I'm not an addict type."

So they lie back in the armchairs, changing back and forth between comfortable silence and small talk about the effects, waiting for the LSD to kick in. Wilson is studying the walls and the rug, moving his feet full of pins and needles. Nothing happens first, just the feeling of incredible ease, but that might be just the warmth of this newly found friendship, and he shakes his head softly at the unexpected twists of the past few days.

Then the light slowly begins to fade and transform into radially pulsating lines and shards.

 

Wilson throws his head back to see the light oscillating in the room; hotness flows in his hand that he can’t eliminate, can’t resist nor surrender to it. An intangible, shapeless rage forms liquid crystal gravels under his fingers as he strokes his skin, and looks around. In front of a golden-black background crystal-drops of water glitter on a cobweb, and there's a white peacock, champagne bubbles are flying upwards from its tail feathers.

"Holy shit!"

"Good stuff, isn’t it?" House asks whimsically, but his question doesn't make sense to Wilson right now. He breathes in the air, travelling inside a black and white, flickering fractal, studying its mathematical structure in amaze, rocking between its fibers, and it’s beautiful as it transforms into a hypercube behind his closed eyelids. He says into the air that he doesn’t like the hypercube, because he cannot grasp its multi-dimensional shape.

House answers that he should love the hypercube.

He finds himself standing at the window, looking outside at the sunset that’s breaking on the mirror-walls of the skyscrapers. House is right beside him, their hands touch but they don't feel it; they watch the sun floating over the clouds in a glass globe of solar light. The cloud-silhouettes become the sea, dark ships drift among islands as they are looking at a magical picture hidden in another image.

"We are the only ones in the whole world who stopped to observe this," Wilson says, and House puts a hand on his shoulder as they keep staring at the orange orb.

Time has no concept anymore. Wilson vaguely knows that a few hours may have already passed, but it seems both eons and nanoseconds since they’ve been flying together. He looks at House who’s sitting by the window now, speaking about how he’s forming sculptures from the tiles of the floor of the balcony with his imagination, with his vision. Wilson is watching him, and the words he murmurs to himself have blue and pale pink colors, floating off his lips. _I missed you._

He looks up at the ceiling, and stars are falling in his face, rapidly like raindrops, tiny fireflies light the dark room with star-colored shining.

House is there, he knows it, and he laughs an uncontrolled laughter at the sensation of unity. There are abandoned cities with the color of the night clouds, he’s holding House’s hand, maybe for real, maybe in his mind as they are building a shared dream; and a tree is growing out from the concrete, spring is oozing from its branches, it paints the sky blue, it glues the broken city together. He controls the vision, or rather the fantasy, deliberately imagining that everything will turn out to be good.

Wilson’s amazed, amused and comfortable as hell, he could follow a train of thought to infinity and still never grasp all of the dimensions in his head.

 

Then all visions slowly fade away to a pleasant, low-key pulsating, though the memory keeps lingering, rocking him in a soft little boat.

"Oh God, it is great, wonderful," Wilson babbles incoherently, warmth heating his feet and hands, and House is sitting on the rug, staring at the patches of light dancing on the blue wall behind the window blinds.

"Look at all those jellyfish," he says dreamily.

Wilson hums, but he's not interested in the jellyfish, instead he's regarding House’s profile, and when he turns towards him, his features change and unfamiliar faces are formed from them. His ancestors. An old man, a young man and a middle-aged woman, then, for a moment, an old woman, before his face becomes young and genderless in the colours of the twilight; Wilson has never seen anything so beautiful, and he feels like a sea dweller walking on the surface for the first time.

He closes his eyes again; another deep sigh, another swirl of images of the universe, the rays of a dying red dwarf star, a black hole absorbing the light, comets and moons circling around grey and blue planets; and when he comes back to Earth, he sees House lying right next to him on the bed, smiling at him, irises swallowed by huge bottomless pupils.

"I haven't even said your name. What do you prefer? James?" he asks, and it doesn’t feel right.

"Um, my… my wife calls me James, but… I―"

House's smile broadens, and he knows all.

"Then I won't call you that. _Wilson,_ " he says, tasting his name, syllables flying softly from his pink lips, and somehow the way he says it is more intimate than anything Wilson’s ever experienced. "You know that the acid works in your brain only for five minutes? Everything after is just the… aftershock. A ride in a swing. After…math…" House laughs as he's searching for the proper word. "The human communication is so… penurious, so insufficient."

It is true, Wilson thinks for a moment, and it feels so good not to be alone after what seemed like an eternity, travelling across the universe. There is another being, another human next to him, with similar mindset, similar experiences, understanding what cannot be told, and he wants to connect when words are useless and inadequate.

He catches himself glaring into House's face, memorizing his features like he could be gone by tomorrow, and suddenly he’s petrified that’s exactly what will happen; and House looks back with such gentle curiosity that it makes his heart race. He cannot lose him, he simply cannot… That’s when he realizes that he has House’s fingers in his hand.

And House smiles. "You ever seen brown eyes in the sunset? They melt into golden rays, like those circling an eclipse. In the later hours they turn into a sunset of their own."

"Is that your design, bailing out and wooing random guys?" Wilson asks, not wanting to move his hand, and he hopes House doesn’t notice it. He doesn't want to separate their hands.

"Not what I often do."

"Then why did you do it?"

"The wooing?" House asks. "No, I told you, needed someone to drink with."

"But… why me? There were other people too."

House doesn't answer, just stares at him, gaze becoming somewhat distant, and Wilson suddenly must hear the answer, he _needs_ to hear it.

"Hou―"

But his voice is cut off.  "I just… knew."

"Knew what?"

A smile. "That you're not boring."

Wilson blinks at him, then breaks out in laughter. "God, I’m… I’m in a fucking fairytale," he snorts as crystallized icicles form on the periphery of his vision, "a fucking, surreal fairytale… where I’m the youngest prince, and you are…" He leans over House, face inches from his, watching his huge pupils glistening in the twilight, cheeks gleaming with amusement similar his own, "you are Prince Charming who saves me."

House is looking back, laugh lines around his eyes. "Two princes? That’s one modern fairytale," he says, and that makes Wilson grin, too. "And what’s your soon-to-be-ex-wife’s role in the story?"

At the mention of Sam he grimaces, but can’t help bursting out in the next second. "Easy… she’s the evil witch who cursed me!"

They laugh, and for now Wilson really can't tell the difference between tales and reality and acid trip anymore. Then House’s face turns a little more serious, yet the mischief remains. "And how are the spells supposed to be broken?" he asks, and then Wilson’s body is faster than his mind and he’s not thinking, just leans forward to kiss House's still smiling mouth.

Lips are pressing softly like butterflies, with the insecurity of the first kiss that so much depends on; then a small pause, a tiny catch of breaths, Wilson’s voice but a trembling whisper. "I’m sorry, you were joking, I shou―," but then House takes his face in his hands and kisses him again, the tip of his tongue swiping against his upper lip with the breeze of a promise, and Wilson moans and yanks him close. House’s mouth is sliding on his, a hint of stubble, tiny suckling of lips, little nips, House’s hands are caressing the back of his neck, and Wilson groans again, devouring House’s lips, taking delight in the soft crying sounds he gets in return, tongues sliding wetly, tastebuds aroused with the flavour of spiced candy, and it's wonderful and feels like they were swallowing each other whole, so intense, so engrossed, everything feels multiplied thousandfold as their hands twine, and the delicacy of House’s lips is like kissing water, kissing air.

And there are pictures so vivid that he will remember them even many years later: the way House's collarbones are exposed as Wilson slides the shirt down from his shoulders, the goosebumps on his own stomach as House hikes his t-shirt up and breathes in his navel, the sight of a soft pink tongue gliding on his skin, the way his own fingers disappear in House's hair.

And House's voice is breaking as he leans his forehead against Wilson’s ribs. "No, it's… I didn't invite you here to… to take advantage of you…"

"Are you kidding, don't you dare to stop!" Wilson says, turning themselves over and kissing his friend, murmuring sweet nonsenses to encourage him until House embraces him back and presses his hot mouth against his neck, pushing aside his uncertainty.

"House," Wilson’s lips are teasing, worshipping the name, he keeps calling him like that and it feels natural and appropriate. "Oh, House, please," he whispers as he straddles him, letting himself be slowly exposed, unwrapped like a birthday present, his bare skin licked, tiny beads of sweat lapped up, and he feels a gasp of pleasure bursting through his lips, transmuted into a growl churning low in his throat. "House," he moans softly, like he’s holding onto the only fix point in his life.

"God," House whispers, "the way you say my name…"

"Don’t I know you?" Wilson’s on his back again, staring blankly at the undulating, pulsating patterns on the wall, face in a cathartic smile, "don’t I know you from somewhere?" He pulls House to him to claim his mouth in another molten kiss, and House growls onto his lips, completely undone, and seeing him like this is strange, thrilling, and not surprising at all.

"Wilson, oh I want to… I want…" House moans, slowly rocking against him, and the hard heat of his body sets Wilson on fire.

"Yes!" He cries as House nips his neck, his fevered sighs are like melody of another world, and House’s flesh feels like silk to his fingertips, and the pleasure is multiplied and he lets himself drown in it, he wants to feel it, he wants to live it through, it's not enough, even as House's naked skin becomes liquefied vanilla beneath his tongue and his dark red lips are sweet and warm, and his own body is melting under House’s touch as his mouth is doing incredible, wonderful things to him.

There's so much to do and so many things to experience, a hundred lifetimes wouldn't be enough.

"I want to feel you in me."

Wilson’s words form themselves on their own on his tongue, out of yellow and green colors as he’s floating on a melody of LSD and sweat and kisses and smell, and he only knows he said it out loud when House’s eyes flutter closed as he's gasping "oh fuck" against his cheek, so quietly it’s barely audible.

With his last shreds of sobriety Wilson slides to the edge of the bed to fumble in his briefcase for a condom before House could say anything, and House can't let him go and he follows him, hugging him from behind, trembling like he doesn't believe what is happening, his hardness pokes Wilson’s thigh as he keeps kissing along Wilson’s nape and spine, making him chuckle and purr and lean back into his embrace.

Turning over, he’s marveling at House’s body as he’s kneeling on the bed, rolling the condom on himself with shaking hands; his skin tightly hugs his muscles, the tall, sinewy form of an athlete, simple male perfection in body and mind; and Wilson’s so aroused he thinks he’s gonna pass out if House doesn't do something soon. But then the man is on top of him, broad shoulders hovering over his, a perfect, hot cock pressing against his own, and they’re kissing again, his mouth flooded with the taste of heaven, the warmth of House’s skin sends sparks along his nerves.

House is heavy and hard and sweating between his thighs, as aroused and needy and excited and scared as himself, hesitating for a second, but Wilson grips his waist with his legs, looking in his eyes.

"Come," he breathes, and when House pushes in, they both groan shamelessly; and he finally, finally slides all the way inside, the tightness, the heat become almost unbearable; it’s intense and foreign, Wilson can’t help but cry out, feeling like they were fusing together; and House stills.

"Good?" he grunts onto Wilson’s mouth, melting into him hotly, damply, until Wilson's whole being, his limbs, his head are all filled with him, to the tips of his fingers, tips of his toes.

"Yes," he groans, the depth of those darkened, blue eyes is almost sickening, he can’t stand it, he has to kiss, and House’s waist is the slender arch of a violin, lukewarm wood becoming hourglass under his palm, sand of life peeling behind moist glass. House moves inside him, his tongue feels like petals, its caress is the breeze of spring as he's bathing Wilson's skin all over with panting kisses, thus telling things he doesn't have the words for, gently closing his teeth around a nipple, his hands stroking him everywhere he can reach as his body is rhythmically pressing into his.

Wilson’s throat resonates and murmurs as he’s pushing himself against him, surging together with him, almost crying in delirious pleasure, "please, don't― don't ever stop…" as he's making love to a liquid deity, being transformed into plasma in the raging fractals of their minds. His friend, his lover, his _saviour_ moves in him with slow, deep undulates, like the waves of an ocean, rocking him, taking him higher, each movement caressing that wonderful place within him, making him arch and moan, and their foreheads touch, lips part around gasping breaths, eyes lock in separate yet conjoined worlds, and in this moment he knows that he’s lost forever to him.

And then the blueness of that gaze becomes hypnotizing, and suddenly everything is too tight and too hot, House’s heat, his quiet sobs, his thrusts, his pleasure are washing over him, transforming into electric impulses across the netting of his nerves, and there’s not enough air in his lungs. "House―" he chokes out, "I’ll come―" and his breath sticks in his throat, his hands dig in House’s moist skin, and House’s guttural, answering groan is but a distant murmur in his ear; and at first he only feels the physical symptoms, the racing of his heart, the tightening of his muscles around his lover, the rippling of his abdomen, the arching of his back, the twitching of his cock in House’s warm, caressing hand, the first long spurt and the hot wetness on his own stomach and chest before the offset euphoria takes him, multiplied and stretched across time; and he clutches at the other man like his life depends on it, the last straw connecting him to this world, sobbing hoarsely, voice mingling with House’s encouraging whispers as his whole body is thrashing with release, his thighs clasp around his friend's waist, polygons with the color of House’s irises engendering behind his eyelids, dark fire pooling in his groin; it seems to last forever as he's wailing House’s name, his fingers sink in that muscular back and oh yes, House is _there,_ inside his body and inside his skull and inside his soul, and they are twined together within the finite time; and for a moment he truly believes he’s found God.

His throat becomes dry with heavy wheezing, and in the first moment of clarity he finally looks up to see House staring at him, mesmerized and somewhat frightened, with a raw, vulnerable expression, eyes transfixed on his face.

"Wilson…" His whisper but a breeze between his lips, "God, you're so― oh God…" He’s trembling and his eyes are shiny, he’s stopped moving, waiting for his reassurance; but Wilson smiles at him and pushes and turns themselves over so he can ride him, slow and hard, pumping his hips, rising his body to damply kiss House's lips, holding him, swallowing his little cries of joy and fever. "My dragon…" House sighs shakily, "my silver dragon…" and Wilson watches his eyes glistening huge and unbelieving for a moment before screwing shut, his breath hitching, then calling out in Wilson's embrace, face twisting, body tensing and convulsing for what seems like minutes; it's such an intoxicating and beautiful sight that Wilson's heart skips a beat, and he just stares, burning the picture in his memory as they keep rocking slowly; and House’s hands are gentle on his waist, even as he’s flying high.

 

Caresses, long, long hours of aftermath, galaxies and quasars blink on the wall in the dim light, and they’re surging into the rhythm together.

"I saw your past in you," Wilson whispers in House's ear, wondering and smiling.

"I saw my future in you," House answers as he looks at him, dizzy amazement in his eyes in the place of his usual mask of indifference, and turns his face to kiss him. "I wish this lasted forever," he murmurs, puffing warm little clouds of breath on Wilson’s lips.

"Oh, yes, it will last forever," Wilson throws his head back, laughing as tears of happiness trickle from his eyes, "it will last forever."

 

They don’t talk about it the next day.

Wilson has to go back to Boston, to his previous life, to his divorce, and he’s scared, because everything they had is still too intense, too wonderful, too frightening. He’s scared and lost and doesn’t want to be in pain.

He dresses and steps to House to say something, to say thank you, but realizes he can’t find the words as they look at each other. Instead he fumbles in his jacket for a pen, and takes House’s hand to write his phone number onto his skin.

House looks at it for a while, like he wants to memorize it, then raises his head, his eyes unreadable, distant.

"Don’t go."

The quiet, simple beg tears into Wilson’s ears; but he cannot afford to lose House if it becomes something close, something intimate, and if it turns out to be unsustainable in the end.

So he chooses the lesser hurt, lying to himself that they wouldn't have a future together, because it was only a drug induced affair.

"I have to."

So he belittles and denies everything he saw in those eyes, everything he felt in his stomach.

"No, you don’t."

So he lets it go, pushes it away, and he’s cursing himself for it.

"We meet again?" A childish question escapes him though, he can’t help it.

And House looks at him like trying to figure him out when he thought he’s already solved the puzzle that’s Wilson; and after a long pause, he takes the pen to scrabble his number onto Wilson's hand, too.

"Call me if you want," he says shortly, and all the unspoken things are choking them both.

They say goodbye at last, and their skin is cold as they shake hands, but Wilson pretends he doesn't notice it.

 

He arrives back to Boston, and cries and sobs in the cab when he realizes he still has House’s scent on his shirt; and the driver doesn't ask anything.

A week passes, and just as he wants to call House, his phone rings, and they talk, both sounding happy to hear about the other; and they bury that night and rebuild their friendship from the basics.

Wilson can learn to live with the longing. It’s amazing what people can live with.

So he divorces, and he meets Bonnie and proposes to her after a while, and they get a dog. Because that's what nice, sober, straight people do.

Because there’s no such thing as love at first sight.


	2. Metal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The second time tastes like copper on his tongue.

After many missed calls, he finds himself at the door of the apartment, worried sick and scared to death. There’s no answer to his knocks, though he only waits for a few seconds before he breaks in the door with his shoulders, close to losing his mind, breathing shallow, acid burning his throat.

The room looks like it’s been trashed by robbers.

He passes shards of furniture, chairs thrown aside, scattered clothes everywhere; he falters in a skirt as he gets deeper into the flat, blind for everything else but the one he’s looking for, following the trail of his instincts, feverishly calling out a name over and over, a name that’s had a special place in his heart ever since he first heard it.

He finds House in the bathroom, clutching his left hand with the right, bruised knuckles, bleeding. Drops and splatters of red everywhere, crystal shards of glass twinkle, smell of copper and metal and sweat and heat; it’s hot, so hot in the bathroom, it’s the middle of summer, but Wilson’s blood freezes in his veins.

House looks at him in the remnants of the mirror that crack his reflection, the dark circles under his tormented eyes.

"Useless," he whispers raggedly, "it is fucking useless."

Wilson stares at him, still panting with slowly fading panic, sweaty hands tightening on the jamb, knowing all, knowing everything. The scent of a woman is lingering in the bathroom, vapor from a broken phial of perfume mixing obscenely with the smell of blood in his nose; it's sickening, and he wants to throw up.

He doesn’t know what to say.

Only what he needs to do.

He steps closer.

 _Don't touch,_ he thinks. _That’s the agreement._

He takes House's hand to examine it, and House lets him, trembling softly.

Cuts crisscross the palm, spread densely through the wrist, not along the veins. Cutting, hitting the mirror...

Cutting relieves the pain.

_Not suicidal. Thank God._

Wilson slowly, carefully pulls out the shards from the flesh with his fingernails, one by one, before looking for a clip or a needle to remove the smaller ones with.

 _Don’t touch,_  a small voice in the back of his skull keeps iterating. _That’s what makes it function._

He doesn't find any, so he lifts House’s hand to his mouth, carefully sucking on the cuts, spitting the splinters into the sink. He pours some alcohol on the wounds, but he can’t find any bandage, so he just bends a towel around House’s hand and wrist.

They don't need to say anything. Wilson would know what had happened even if Stacy didn't call him. The smell of loss is in the air, the absence of a presence is choking both of them.

"She left," House says after a long pause, in a blank, broken voice, not looking at him, "she fucking left! Five years and she just… left!"

Wilson is watching him, not saying a word, regarding the changes in his friend’s face; the deepened wrinkles, the paleness, the agony carved lines; and he remembers that scar, the huge chunk of flesh bitten out of the muscle… House’s anything but beautiful now, yet Wilson still remembers what he used to be like. He still admires him, his mind, his talent, his obsession with medicine, his knowledge, his pranks, his stubbornness. The way his fingers caress the strings of the guitar. The way his eyes twinkle when trying to solve a puzzle. His soul that completes his so perfectly, so naturally.

He almost lost him without knowing it, and that thought makes his stomach clench. He wasn’t there, and by the time he arrived, it was already too late, and all he could do was to spend long, endless, sleepless nights beside House’s bed, watching over him together with Stacy, comforting and leaning into each other for support; or sometimes alone, when he sent her away to sleep.

The memory still haunts him. If only he’d been around…

This is stupid. He can't be with him all the time.

_Don’t leave me…_

And now they are left together, alone, and he must be strong, for him.

He finds himself softly caressing House's unharmed wrist with a fingertip, and House trembles at his touch, but doesn't pull away.

_Don't do this. Let him go. Don’t…_

They barely touch since New Orleans in an unspoken agreement, the fear of the avalanche it could start; and now that he comes around, the feel of skin sends small sparks along his nerves. They stayed friends and never repeated that night, but the craving remained, and it gushes out of him with elementary force, even after these long, endless years. He must never admit how much he’s been yearning for more, and he pushes that feeling back to the deepest pit of his soul. It’s not the proper time. He swallows hard.

"It will hurt for a long time, but you’ll get over it. You’re strong, and you don't have to do this alone."

"You should go away," House says to the wall, and Wilson looks at him, stunned. "She was right, I’ve become a monster. Go away."

"She didn’t mean it."

"She did."

Wilson can't stand the quiet despair; he wants to find his old, happy friend who is still there maybe, somewhere; and without thinking, he does the one hopeless thing he can think of to go back to the past, to get that man back he first met; so he leans over and plants a small kiss to the corner of House’s mouth, his breath swiping away a surprised little gasp.

This is their first kiss after a lifetime, and the memories surge through him unexpectedly as he’s tasting salt and copper; he pulls back slightly, asking a question without a word, and he gasps as House slowly, hesitantly kisses him back after a long moment. Their lips slide against each other's, softly, desperately, wetly, oh it’s so heavenly and painful, and Wilson growls and purrs deep in his throat, his hand sinks into House’s soft hair, and House’s eyes flutter closed, his lips part under the gentle, strict pressure of Wilson’s mouth, surrendering for a moment, allowing him to lightly brush his tongue against his; and Wilson’s pulse speeds up, he presses himself closer…

But then House grabs him and pushes him away.

"I can’t…" he says, "I can't give you… anything."

_I will make you happy again, just let me, please…_

"You can," Wilson answers, "just stay. That's all I want." He leans forward and touches House, not caring about loss, despair or pain, his palms brush over his arms. He didn't intend to, but it feels natural and obvious; and he will make things good again. The pain might poison House’s life forever, and he might not get that carefree, healthy man back, but he can make him happier. They will go hiking again. They will be able to do anything they want _…_ "You're still strong, still young, and you don't have to do this alone."

And House growls at him, whether in need or anger or hatred towards himself or Stacy or the scar or the remnants of his life, Wilson can’t tell.

"You're alive," Wilson whispers onto House's cheek, "it matters, your life is not over," and he finds himself desperately wanting him despite the circumstances, and he's disgusted with himself as he kisses House’s face, fingers tentatively slipping under the sleeve of the sweat-soaked shirt to touch the bare skin of a wrist; and House shivers, closing his eyes.

"She just left, and you are…" A tired whisper, barely audible.

"She’s not the only one who can love you," Wilson says, wanting to comfort, thinking of a woman, a faceless woman in the future who might make House happy, he really doesn't mean to refer to himself; yet he can't help but put his arms around his friend, letting his scent of adrenalin and musk fill his nose, losing himself for just a moment.

House tenses, but Wilson doesn't see what is coming―

He’s angrily smacked away, and Wilson falters against the basin, sweeping off some bottles with the motion.

"Oh, and that would be _you,_ Wilson? You’d be the one to love me?"

The loud, harsh voice hurts Wilson’s ears, and he freezes, heart in his throat as he stares at House, mouth gaping and heart clenching, bile burning his stomach.

"Who left me in fucking New Orleans, scared shitless that somebody actually made him happy? Or did you just lie to me? You and her, everybody fucking lies to me! Don’t talk to me about _love!_ "

They've never spoken about it, the reasons behind his leaving, and House goes right for the throat, wanting to hurt, and yes, it does hurt. It does hurt like hell, and Wilson feels his blood run out from his face.

"What― You know I didn’t―"

"Oh, I forgot, it's just your style, screwing everybody who needs you!" House is hissing now, and Wilson’s never seen him so angry before, it frightens him motionless, wordless, ice cold. ”I'm not gonna be one of your one night stands, I deserve―!"

He doesn’t finish, and the silence is sudden and sharp as a grimace of pain jolts across his face, and Wilson twitches, reaching after him, wanting to help.

House is clenching his thigh, fingernails digging in his flesh, stumbling away from Wilson, not looking at him anymore. "Get out."

_What happened?_

He must make sense to this, he must say something…

"House… You know it meant a lot to me, you _know_ it, please…" No answer to his words besides deadly silence. He tries again, stunned for a moment at how pathetic he sounds. "I’m so sorry I left, if only you knew how much I―"

"Yeah, I know you’re sorry," House says with a snort. "You’re all sorry. Now go."

How can he get through the hurt?

"I know it's not me you want but… let me stay."

How can he make things okay when everything is burning?

"Wilson, get the fuck ou―"

But Wilson shuts him up with another kiss, it's the only idea he has, the only way he knows how to give comfort, or maybe it's an unconscious attempt to make up for the lost time, he doesn't know, and doesn't care about the consequences; but House is clawing hard at his shoulders, the towel falls off his hand as he struggles to push him away, refusing to give in to him, mouth shut tight; then the tension and all his energy leave him, and he finally lets his arms go slack, yielding to him agonizingly slowly, fingers twining in the sleeves of Wilson’s shirt. Their kiss is hard and sad with a hint of teeth, their lips swell against each other, finally opening wide to taste tongues, to reveal deep, panting, involuntary moans.

They part finally, and Wilson gasps for air, getting dizzy and high on the feel of his friend’s kiss.

"Let me stay here, with you, let me help," he hears himself begging against House’s lips. He reaches for House’s hand, kisses along his fingertips and his palm, sighing onto his wrist, but stopping there, waiting for an answer.

"Why did you leave then?" House asks angrily and tiredly, eyes red and glistening. He sits down on the edge of the bathtub, and now he’s the one who finally touches Wilson, pulling him close to sigh at his jaw, taking his head in his hands to kiss him; and Wilson suspects that House is trying to erase the memories of Stacy with him, that he’s just accepting his offering, and it’s okay. It will work, they will work, it will turn out to be good…

"I was― scared," Wilson whispers as they press into each other, pushing their bodies as close as possible; and he arches back, groaning, rapidly losing control when House grabs his waist, sliding his hand down to stroke his ass.

"And you’re not scared now?" House asks, voice low in his ear as his hands tear Wilson’s shirt open, making it brownish-red and sticky, pooling around his forearms, palms caressing his flaming skin all over. "What do you want?"

"This," Wilson manages to choke out as House is licking at his neck, his collarbones, his stubble scratching, his mouth sucking, marking him, but Wilson doesn’t care that everybody will see it; he’s touching and clawing at House’s flesh, feeling how sweaty and heated he is; he's watching House’s mouth open over his nipple, his tongue flick out to tease, his lips tighten to suck, and oh God, how could he ever say no to the sharp pangs of delight his sight and his touch brings. "God, I want this―"

House then looks into his eyes before turning him around and pulling his arms behind his back, binding him with his own shirt, and the edge of the sink is cold and hard as Wilson’s thighs bump against it.

"You promised it’s forever," House whispers in his ear, towering over him, and Wilson aches, he's not sure if this is really about him, but he can't answer anyway, he can't say how sorry he is and how much it hurt him, too, and how much he still hates himself for it, and how much more different it would have been if he stayed _then;_ and if he stayed, maybe they didn't have Stacy and didn't have the infarction; or maybe he’d be the one who were leaving now, and maybe Stacy would be here now instead of him, and every illogical, unnecessary thought makes him want to scream.

But House is now stroking again his butt through the soft wool of his trousers, and Wilson can’t say a thing, nor think straight anymore. House sighs, pressing his fingers between his buttocks, and Wilson groans in frustrated desire, his cock throbs against the tightened fabric of his pants when House's hand finds it and squeezes it; and Wilson’s eyes close.

"God," he gasps as House is leaning against him, as hard as himself, removing clothes, yanking down Wilson’s pants, freeing his arms; he's unzipping his own fly, and Wilson feels his nape being grabbed with an iron grip and pushed downward, his body bent over even more.

"Sex?" House asks as he's clasping the flesh of Wilson's naked ass, hard, "I can give you _sex_ if that's what you want… I have nothing else," and Wilson groans and clutches the basin with whitening knuckles.

Looking around, he grabs the first bottle at hand, maybe Stacy's hand lotion, and clumsily reaches back to prepare himself with it, not quite aware of anything anymore but the throbbing want, the pleasure spreading along the trail of his own touch when he pushes his fingertips inside; and House’s gaze is scorching his skin, his aroused panting is loud between the walls.

"I’m ready― ah, House―" Wilson gasps, lost in the delirium of his love and desire, "I’m ready―"

House grunts loudly and leans into him, his palm slips on the sink, he groans as his cuts open, so he slants on his forearms instead, his chest sticks to Wilson's back, and Wilson’s arms tense under his weight.

There's a blunt, hard cock nudging at Wilson’s entrance, a brush of a teasing tongue on his jaw, and he's trembling with heat and anticipation now, breath rugged in his lungs, eyes screwed shut.

"Please tell me to stop…" A pleading whisper in his ear, so different from the previous angriness; but Wilson just pushes his hips backwards, and that hot hardness is breaching him, sliding inside so easily, so pleasurably, like a key into its lock, and a guttural groan rips from his throat and mingles with House's desperate, broken gasp. House thrusts forward, making Wilson cry out as he's stretched open and filled to the hilt, and their balls touch, their thighs tremble against each other’s, and House is heaving against his back, hot and heavy, and Wilson feels scraping of teeth in his neck and a hand on his chest, stroking his pectorals, his nipples, his stomach.

But then there's a pause, and the throbbing in his groin, the strain and pressure in his ass become unbearable; House is gasping deeply in his ears, and Wilson just can't stand the waiting, he’s so hot and lust sparkles along his spine, he needs that hard flesh to sink into him over and over.

"Please… do it now, please," he begs breathlessly, and House starts to move, and both of them groan loudly as he’s filling him, stroking his insides, shimming against his ass with uneven, one-sided thrusts as he puts his weight on his good leg, his movements are burnt into Wilson's mind, reminding him every second who is fucking him, finally, _finally…_

"Tell me it’s more than this…"

The sudden, harsh need in House’s voice hits him; and he hears himself moaning and begging in answer, every thrust making incoherent, loving words gush out of him in sharp exhales, words about how hot, how wonderful, how maddening it is, how good it feels, how he wants him, needs him; and House shivers at his voice and trembles in pain above him, slowing down; but Wilson pushes back, cruelly impaling himself over and over, his cock is heavy and throbbing, his balls feel so full between his thighs, and then the angle is right, oh it's just right, pleasure bursts inside him and he yells in pure blessing, his voice echoing off the tiles of the bathroom, and oh God, he suddenly finds himself in the delirium of that time, that first time…

House is wordless besides the low, throaty grunts mixed with small sounds of crying, and Wilson wonders for a moment whether he thinks of Stacy, and he supposes he does, because he knows what betrayal and betraying feels like, and he feels his stomach sink at the thought; but then House leans onto him, clasping him tight against his chest, a desperate litany of words breaking against his neck, his name resonating from those lips over and over, and God, House is thinking of him, House _needs_ him…

"Ah, House, I've wanted this," Wilson moans in abandon while moving backwards, exposing his throat to the open air, letting the oxygen flow through his lungs, and the smell of blood is maddening in a way he doesn't understand, still mingling with the perfume, but he can ignore the latter now. "I've missed this so," he breathes, and House’s injured hand is around his chin, his thumb is stroking his lips and Wilson sucks his finger in his mouth, and the taste of blood is so arousing as the sharp edges of wounds and raw flesh slide along his tongue. House's blood in the sink, his blood on his lips, his essence, his very being, the life of him in his coppery taste, House's pain is not Wilson’s pain, it’s his rapture, and he should be the one who gives comfort instead of taking it, he should feel guilty… He arches into House’s hand on his body, scorching, caressing, claiming him, House’s grunting breaths rumple his hair, making him disheveled, his skin makes him wet, his smell is penetrating and he's everywhere around him, inside him…

Opening his eyes, he sees himself in the fragments of the mirror, his own face contorted in pleasure, his furrowed brows, his swollen, glistening lips sucking on House’s fingers, his black irises behind half-closed eyelids, the thinness of his own body as it's pumped back and forth, his metal watch glistening in the soft yellow light; he admires himself and both of them for a moment, his own blood-stained chin, a red stripe on his cheekbone, House's broad back covering his, sweating onto him, soaked hair falling in his temple as he’s roughly taking Wilson from behind; and finally House stands up, tall and strong, head leant back, groans of pleasure burst through his lips, his narrow hips slam against Wilson’s ass, his wet fingers dig into Wilson's back and spread on his shoulders, grabbing, pulling, yanking him backwards. Wilson grips the sink, watching House’s rippling abdomen, his chest, his cock disappearing inside him at the base of his spine, and he moans and shivers when he darts his vision to House's face, dark and beautiful and twisted, pain, concentration, distraction mingling in his angered, lustful expression, trails of tears on his cheeks that speak of loneliness, betrayal and longing, his movements slanted but still strong, his shuttered elegance, hard muscles, almost-healthy body, the sheer life force of a man, sweat trickling down on his chest, and Wilson's forever mesmerized by him.

And he feels the sweet pressure building in his loins, he has to have more, it's not enough, it will never be enough, why didn’t they do this sooner, why didn’t they do this more often, why did he run away, he straightens too and leans back, stomach muscles stretching, spine arching, head thrown back onto House’s shoulder.

"Kiss me," he chokes, and House obeys, and their lips stick together, tongues plunge into each other’s mouth; he's glancing again in the mirror, thrilled by the sight of their bodies twined like an antique sculpture of lovers, their slipping tongues, their eager lips, their faces, they way the veins pulsate and tendons stretch in House’s hand as it finally slides down to his lap, tight and beautiful around his cock, his other hand tensing across Wilson's chest as he clasps his body to him, spreading thin, faint lines of blood on him like paint on fresh canvas, and oh, it's such ecstasy, such dark beauty he doesn’t deserve.

"Oh God― yes!" he gasps when House takes his ear between his lips and sucks, and House begins to thrust more feverishly, finally finding his voice.

"You feel so good…" House's ragged panting in his ear, "ah― I’ve wanted you― wanted you to―ah, to stay… oh, it's so good, Wilson, _fuck,_ " his incoherent words send a chill down to Wilson's groin, making a groan break through his throat. House’s breathing is now hot and damp and so heavy, and the contrast in the color of Wilson’s own pale skin against House’s darker, easily tanning one fills him with perverted ecstasy, House's cock feels so raw and big and scorching inside him, Wilson’s legs shake with exertion as he reaches back to run his fingers through House's hair, twisting them in his scalp before the trembling spreads across his whole body in approaching release, the odor of the other man’s arousal envelops him, makes him dizzy and hungry.

"Almost," he groans in abandon for House to hear how close he is, his mind begins to darken as the pleasure mounts.

"No, wait― wait for me," House whispers in his ear, squeezing him hard enough to hurt, slowing his hand; and Wilson grinds his teeth, listening to House’s shallow panting, feeling how his thrusts become erratic, but it's no use, he can't hold back anymore, not even untouched; but at last House also looks up to see their reflections, his hands and arms tighten around Wilson once again; and Wilson comes at the moment their wounded, rapture-hazed eyes meet in the mirror, he cries out his sweet, agonized pleasure as he spills in House's touch; and House is right there with him, shuddering, breath hitching, still keeping their eyes locked as his hips jerk and his release floods him, and Wilson trembles, it's so wonderful to come together, and he wants it to never, ever end.

 

But finally it's over, yet they stay joined for a long time, neither of them moving.

"I… loved you." House’s quiet words echoing off the tiles softly, warm breath on skin, his forehead pressed to Wilson’s shoulder. "I loved you…"

God, it hurts so much.

But Wilson is willing to help him through the pain. Their pain. He reaches back and pulls him as close as he can.

"I’m here. I won’t leave."

House doesn’t say anything; but Wilson knows, hopes, that they will figure it out. Somehow…


	3. Water

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The third time he's drowning.

For a tremendous, endless moment he’s levitating in the air, eyes wide open, frozen in silent time.

He holds his breath as his back hits the surface, and there are sounds again.

Gravity pulls him into cold, soft water, rocking him, low buzz straining against his eardrums, and he obediently immerses himself under, down, down, down. A single bubble escapes his lips, levitating upwards before lazily, silently popping on the surface.

The rays of sunlight are fading on his irises as he's sinking, lower and lower, his limbs drift feather-lightly, body becoming still, and he now tries to gasp for air in vain. He’s drowning, diving deeper, deeper ever into the water that gradually darkens to black, he’s sinking into bottomless depth; and now the air in his chest hurts him, it’s impossible to breathe when water pours into his lungs.

A ghost, clad in green light forms behind his now closed eyelids, calling him, charming him with the song of a siren; and when he looks up, the water stings into his pupils like millions of icicles.

And there is she, smiling at him, blond hair floating softly around her face, and his heart skips a beat at her sight. His lips part to call out her name, but only bubbles leave his mouth.

She reaches after him, holding out a hand for him to grasp; he clings to her, and she pulls him upwards, towards the sun, towards the spears of vibrating god rays that stab the sea around them.

The water shatters to dust on his skin as he breaks through the surface once again; and suddenly wind is breezing his face, the scent of an ocean penetrates him, the distant cries of seagulls echo in his ears. He gasps for air like a man returning from the other shore of the Styx, guided by a pair of blue eyes.

Chest heaving, drops splattering, his vision becoming clear; and it’s _his_ hand in his hand, he knows it before even seeing it; he recognizes how it feels, he recognizes how _he_ feels. They are kneeling on pebbles and sand, and he looks up to see him smile at him.

Cold wind, an empty shore, and Wilson shakes and shivers as beads of seawater trickle down on his face, salty and warm. _Amber, Amber,_ he weeps her name, pulling House into his arms, embracing his shoulders while sobbing against his cheeks, his jaw, his lips; and House holds him tight, strokes his hair, and finally, slowly leans ahead to kiss his tears away.

 

He’s still drowning, and he realizes he’s in love.

 

He arrives at the gate with his guts coiled into anguishing knots; but he persistently makes his way past the wide variety of flora that adorns the landscape, heading toward a lone tree that stands in the middle of a large, lawn-covered field.

He stops there.

The sunrays are light green, and the air radiates the scent of oak and spring and love.

_Love…_

His gaze falls downwards to linger at an elegant marble stone that holds few words, but each one is a twist of a knife in his stomach. A sigh escapes him as he crouches, placing a single red tulip onto the tombstone.

His fingers lightly trace the engraved letters and numbers.

_Amber…_

"I’m sorry," he says, so quietly that he barely hears it. "For being unable to save you, and for… getting stuck. I know you wouldn’t have wanted me to do that. You would've told me to move on."

Dark lashes close over brown, burning eyes, and he inhales the scent of earth and moss.

"Forgive me for not visiting as often as I used to. Sometimes I missed you so much… It was painful to realize you wouldn’t be back, even if I came here every day."

He drifts off for a moment, remembering his deliberately fading memories, and then his too-vivid, too real dreams.

"God, I miss your smile. Your face. Your hair… Remember that weekend at Lake Hopatcong? I took you there to show you where I grew up… You were so beautiful in the sunlight. Sometimes I still taste the ice cream on your lips. Coconut, wasn’t it?"

He lifts his head to gather his thoughts. The leaves and the structure of the huge, old tree are ridiculously pretty.

"But now, I think I’m getting unstuck. Forgive me for… House. Though I bet you’d laugh your ass off if you were watching right now."

He smiles to himself before his brows furrow, searching for the proper words.

"Don’t think I’m defiling your memory. You, you were so similar to him, and yet, it was not him whom I was looking for in you. And you’re not the one I’m looking for in him. I’m not even sure I’m looking for anything. Maybe these things just… happen."

He sighs deeply, shakily, carefully forming his thoughts.

"He scares me sometimes. I’m scared by how far I would go for him. I ran away once; I shouldn’t have. Our whole lives would have been different if I hadn't run away from him, and that frightens me. The consequences of one damn choice. If I didn’t leave… Maybe he’d be healthy and happy now. Maybe I could have saved his leg. And you―you’d be still alive, happy with somebody―"

He closes his eyes as his voice breaks, his vision becomes blurred.

"But I can't help it now. And he’s getting better, he was happy to move in with me, and I almost see the person he always could have been if… Perhaps these are just my hopes. But I think… I _feel_ that if we are ever to get together, now is the moment. I screwed up the first time. I don't think I’ll have another chance."

He drinks in the sight of the sky, the grass, the slender fractal of the tree branches, his fingers absentmindedly caress the tombstone.

"Amber… Would you be angry if I tried this, with House? Or would you simply laugh, telling me to take care of myself and be happy?"

"He is…" Wilson lets his gaze dance over the green leaves. "He’s anything but perfect. When I’m with him, I’m often… annoyed. Angry, worried sick when he plays with death like life meant nothing to him. He said he’d be alone if I died, but did it ever occur to him that it works both ways?"

His fingers clamp into fists before they’re relaxed, and he lets a small, tender smile spread to the corners of his mouth.

"But he also makes me feel good. Delighted, amused. Interesting and wanted. Needed. This isn’t healthy at all, yet… He loves me in his own way, and I can’t seem to resist. I need him to be happy."

There. He admitted it after all.

"I want to make him happy."

He remains silent for a long time; then he lets his hand trace over the letters once again.

"Thank you, Amber… I’m sure you know that I still miss you. And I will love you, no matter what happens."

Another small smirk touches his lips, and he lingers for another moment, gazing at her grave.

Eventually, he stands up, inhaling deeply, and sudden peace eases into his heart with a feathery touch. He turns his back and leaves, and the wind mildly shifts the tulip on the stone.

 

There are moments in life when you just _know_ what you’ve desired is going to happen.

He was wandering around the shopping centre, slightly annoyed and tired, looking for another furniture store when he saw that organ.

He can’t really play the piano, he only had an acoustic guitar to entertain the neighbourhood with in his younger years, and sometimes he regrets that he’d given up on music. However, he tried a few upper octaves and bass notes on the organ, and liked how they sounded, he admired the colour of the varnish, how smooth and cool the keys felt under his fingertips; it was a great instrument, and he smiled happily as he ordered it, imagining House's face when he’ll find his present, feeling all warm inside. Hell, he might even ask him to teach him how to play. He might wake him up in the middle of the night in sweet sweet revenge…

And yes, he sees now that his friend is happy, though he doesn't say it or doesn't say thank you, but the light in those sparkling eyes, the expression of pure delight tells him everything.

He goes to his bedroom, leaving his door open to the melody that House is luring out with that talent of his Wilson always found fascinating. He always found him fascinating… He lies down on his bed to listen to the accords; he knows the song, and he quietly hums it to himself, even drifting off slightly.

After a while it stops. He wakes up to the sound of footsteps approaching his room, and he sits up as he begins to quiver with anticipation, and he just _knows_.

And yes, House is at his door now, his smirk is honest, not sarcastic for once, and it makes Wilson’s heart melt. He stands up, staring at him in unbelieving delight as House steps to him, close, so close that Wilson can feel his warmth through their clothes; but they don’t say anything, not yet.

He inhales the other man’s mind-hazing scent, the smell of home after a hard day's work, unusual, but familiar; and House smirks at him when he tentatively asks "Do you like it…?"

"I love it." House leans closer, his lips hovering over Wilson’s face, and he can almost feel the prickling of stubble on his skin, his heart thudding wildly in his chest.

"Is that the reason of… this…?" Wilson asks, holding himself back, half afraid that this is some sort of a joke, though he’d like nothing more than to pull him in his arms and eat him alive; and House snorts.

"You know, there’s this thing called ‘human connection’. They say it’s quite pleasant, I thought we might try it out."

Wilson chuckles as warm exhales tickle the small fluffs on his cheek. "For a moment I almost thought it was gratefulness."

"That’s the advanced level," House murmurs on his jaw, and Wilson lets his lips mirror that smile, but it immediately fades to give place to a sigh as House plants a small kiss onto his neck at the line of his collar.

"Thank you," House breathes, face millimeters from Wilson’s, one hand sliding to his nape, their breaths mingling between them.

"It's… it’s been a while," says Wilson after a while, voice breaking as House lightly tugs at his hair and pulls his head back, so he can lick the hollow of his throat with just the tip of his tongue; and Wilson moans and hugs him tightly, and it‘s so wonderful to finally touch the other man, he never wants to let him go again, and he lets his hands sneak under the clothing to feel his bare, heated skin.

"Yeah," House whispers, and Wilson’s eyes flutter closed.

So many long years have passed and such a long way they've come; but at last their lips meet, softly and gently. He’s floating, drinking out of House's mouth, a fountain of life, shivering in satisfaction as House’s both hands twine in his hair to caress tenderly, his fingers dig into the flesh of House’s waist. The pure bliss of the kiss is carefree and eager, and Wilson growls deep in his throat at the gentle suckling on his lower lip. Heat is spreading in his stomach like wildfire, and he’s huffing with rapid, shallow breaths. God, how he’s desired this, his fantasies could never compete with the amazing reality of House in his arms…

House pulls away to nip Wilson’s ear, sighing, stroking his ass through the clothing. "I wanna make love to you," whispered words make Wilson dazed, make all his yearning and lust boil in his groin.

"Ah, yes, yes," he hears his own answering sigh, and prays for this moment to never fade, ever.

When House slides his hand over his heart, reaching for the buttons of his shirt, Wilson grabs his wrists; locking his dark brown eyes into blueness.

"You first," he says in a desperate voice he doesn’t recognize, and House smiles at him, too handsome for Wilson to resist, he has to kiss him again. He intends to go slowly, to draw it out, but House teases his lips open with his tongue, plunging it into his mouth, forcing their bodies even closer. Muffled gasping makes Wilson intoxicated with pleasure, and he pulls on House’s shirt with slow, almost tentative movements, as if his friend was a porcelain doll and he were afraid that in a careless moment he'd smash him to a million tiny pieces, losing all hope for happiness. Undoing the small buttons on House’s chest, he breaks the kiss to reach for his wrists, unbuttoning the cuffs, carefully sliding the shirt off his shoulders; and House lifts his arms to help him pull off the t-shirt he wears underneath.

Breath taken away, throat drying out at the sight of the body revealed in front of him, drinking in the sight of the muscles shimmering golden in the dim light, a spray of hair on the lean chest, heaving with excitement…

Sliding his palms over House’s pectorals first, Wilson sighs in satisfaction; then, without thinking, he drops to one knee in front of him. House is watching him, wide-eyed and breathless as Wilson frees him from the shoes and socks, letting his fingers playfully caress the tops of his feet for a moment. This strange intimacy makes Wilson tremble in the stomach, as if thousands of butterflies would have taken wings inside him; he reaches up to unbuckle the belt, undo the button of the jeans and pull them down together with the shorts, needing to gain all his willpower not to touch House’s perfect body yet, though he can’t help but stare, at his thighs, his hips… his cock, covered with soft, smooth skin, already hard, and he unconsciously wets his lips.

He skips a breath as he’s grabbed and pulled up into a hot embrace, eyes meeting a hungry, predatory gaze.

"Kiss me," House asks tensely, his voice hoarse, and Wilson is happy to obey, open-mouthed and eager, his tongue sliding deep between those inviting lips; and the sensation of House’s tall, warm, naked body through his own silky shirt and thin slacks is a tease, a blatantly erotic, naughty tease. House seems more vulnerable like this, yet feels so strong, as if he could do anything he wished to Wilson; and Wilson moans, his touches grew weaker, his fingertips slip on scorching flesh, his pulse speeds up as tiny kisses shower behind his ears, the side of his neck, and then House pushes his hips into him, their engorged cocks meeting, inflaming them even more.

Gentle nips on his mouth, and Wilson groans barely audibly as he lets his lover embrace him, lay him onto the bed. Silk bedspread coolly touching his back, House’s heat enveloping him, the double sensation making him overwhelmed with shivers. He moves to hug his shoulders, but House pins his hands to the bed, kiss becoming greedy and voracious; and Wilson can’t get enough of the flavor of the other’s lips, it makes his erection painfully throb, pressed against House’s abdomen through his clothes. Writhing in the throes of the sweet torture of lust, he wants to free his hands, but House does not care what Wilson wants, he just continues to take what he’s been craving.

"Feels so good…" Wilson sighs as House shifts to lick the hollow of his throat again, tracing his neck with his mouth, pressing at pulsating veins, sucking on tensing tendons, low growling buzzing in his ear.

But then House is unable to resist anymore, Wilson can sense the impatience rolling off him in waves; and he watches his own body appear little by little from behind the garments, the sight hypnotizing him; tie loosened, buttons torn, shirt tugged open, a series of kisses planted on his slowly revealed chest, his pants unbuttoned, his belt pulled out of the waistband; and Wilson sees those pink lips wandering on his skin, that soft tongue trailing across the new scar on his stomach; but House abruptly stops there, looking up at him with blackened irises.

"You were an idiot. You could’ve died."

"And you’re a selfish ass," Wilson says, without any real sharpness, knowing him too well, understanding the real meaning behind his words; and House slides up to him.

"I’m glad you didn’t die, Mr Selfless. I would be having sex on my own now," he says, and Wilson grins at him, pulling his head down for a kiss.

Soon, the last pieces of his clothing are gone, the cool breeze of House’s movements sweep over him, and he rolls themselves over to touch and fondle, just as House did it before.

 _We both aged so much,_ Wilson thinks, noticing and adoring the signs that the passing years has left on his friend, and he’s a bit embarrassed at how his own body's changed, but House doesn't seem to care, he's murmuring encouraging words as he’s exploring him, doing what they hadn’t had time for.

House opens his legs to take Wilson between them, rocking into him, aligning their cocks, their combined moans echo harshly in the room.

"Are you… comparing us?" Wilson asks, breathless with dazed laughter as he’s lazily thrusting his hips; and House grins against his jaw, nipping at his earlobe.

"We both know mine is bigger."

"It’s not, you’re cheating, you’re―" Wilson chuckles in his face, but his words are swallowed by another kiss, and he quickly forgets everything but the enjoyment, the soft pumping of arousal in his loins; yet somehow he still manages to burst out one thing he wishes against House’s hot, wet lips.

"Let me… please, let me watch you… touch yourself."

House looks at him surprised for a moment before grinning wickedly at him. He obediently moves his hand downwards, looking intently at Wilson; and Wilson’s watching that hypnotizing blueness as it changes, desire and pleasure darkening, clouding it; and his cheeks flush deep red, but he’s unable to look away, House’s face is so gorgeous as those lips part, a pink tongue darts out to brush over them.

"Ah, Wilson…" A quiet gasp, tentatively undulating hips, tensing shoulders, gaze locked on him, half-lidded and glistening; Wilson bites his lip, swallowing back a loud groan when he looks down at House's hand, wrapped tightly around his stiff, darkened cock; the image is mesmerizing, he needs to stare at it forever.

"You want it?" House asks, mischievously but breathlessly; and Wilson’s hand moves on its own in answer, starting to stroke himself, too. House groans, jerking a bit faster; and finally Wilson can’t take it anymore, he leans over to kiss him, and they swallow each other's tiny cries, switching hands, cocks meeting and pressing together, fingers twining as they thrust.

"Yes, touch me," House whispers, his eagerness sending pangs of thrill through Wilson's stomach, and he grunts in his ear in answer, pushing his hips into his, his heated, wet cock rubbing alongside House’s in their hands, and he lets himself float on his feelings, not holding back anymore.

"God, you're so beautiful," he’s panting into House’s shoulder, a soft, answering laughter resonating in his chest, "oh, I want to… fuck, I want to do everything to you," he gasps, leaving wet spots on sweaty, salty skin. "Oh I want to taste you, to ride you, I want―ah, I wanna―I wanna fuck you…"

"God damn it…" groans House deeply, "if you want it to be over in two minutes, just keep talking like this," he says, putting his arms around Wilson, pulling him closer.

"House, House," Wilson whispers lovingly, kissing his way down on his body; then he reaches House’s lap, and House’s every muscle tenses under his touch, his hands clench on the sheets, his head thrown back with a lustful whimper. A flat stomach under Wilson’s fingers, coarse hair and pores and taut muscles, aching slick hardness between his lips, the taste of joy, the taste of life, his teeth are scratching softly, and House arches and groans loudly, making Wilson shiver as he holds onto sharp hip bones, strong thighs. House's hips tilt forward and thrust, and Wilson’s lost for a moment as he lets House’s cock fill his mouth for the first time, his tongue laps at the unfamiliar taste and texture, so thrilling, so arousing, making him aware of his own painful erection that demands attention, but he enjoys this ache way too much.

House props himself on his elbows to see him, and their eyes meet, and Wilson smiles mischievously for a moment, trying to figure out what to do to enhance the pleasure to the bitter end, fondling, licking, rubbing, pulling and pushing at the right place, endlessly giving and giving, and House begins to shake, his rapid breaths rasp in his throat…

Then he’s pushed away, turned over in a swirl of bodies and sweat, and for a second, Wilson’s vision goes black, he feels like he’s drowning, not enough air, not enough life, not enough of House…

But then there’s pleasure, so intense, he cries out like he’s been slapped as hot, wet lips embrace him; he finds himself lying on his side, slowly moving in and out of House’s mouth, relishing in the sparks running along his spine, moaning deeply as a tongue glides along the length of his erection. And House grabs his hips to keep him from falling, drowning, falling apart, and Wilson arches into his embrace, then pushes forward, and it’s not enough, it’s never enough…

"Please, House," he begs, "more… don't stop…" Sweat breaking out on his skin, he opens his eyes, watching eager lips enfolding him, the buzzing of low murmurs vibrating around his flesh.

A brief pause, and House’s mouth wanders on Wilson’s belly, his fingers leisurely fondle the traces of gentle nips, he's murmuring sweet words of longing and caring, making him shiver. Wilson whimpers at the loss, but House’s hot breaths are puffing against his thigh, kisses are planted onto his hip bones, fingers threading through the hair.

"Come in my mouth―come like this," Wilson hears that deepened voice shake with want, and he helplessly groans at House’s words. "Wanna taste your everything, wanna taste your come," House whispers before taking him in again, swirling his tongue, setting him on fire, moaning with enjoyment. Warm softness caressing, gently sucking, and Wilson pushes, forcing himself deeper into that hot throat; and his orgasm builds too fast, too rapidly, and House gives him everything he desires, and Wilson is thrusting wildly until he bursts, trembling, arching, coming forcefully into House’s mouth, sobbing loudly as he spurts again and again, and House eagerly swallows, stroking Wilson’s quivering stomach, and Wilson's hands clench on the bedpost with the slowly fading waves.

… then there are House’s lips on his neck, his scorching body pressed tightly against his, the rigid, wet line of his cock rubbed on his thigh.

"House―" Wilson sighs shakily, lying on his back as he strokes House’s cheek, dizzy with affection and delight; and his face is covered in kisses, he feels his own taste on House’s tongue, hears his fevered whisper in his ear, almost pleading.

"When you’re ready to go again… I want you to fuck me."

_Oh, God._

Wilson groans, heart beating in his throat, and he nuzzles House’s neck to hide his shivering. "I appreciate your trust in my abilities, but you’ll have to give me some time," he says, smiling exhaustedly as he’s caressing his hair.

"I’ll wait," House answers with a longing smile, and he’s so stunningly beautiful that Wilson can’t do anything but continue to stroke him, to worship him…

And their kisses don't seem to ever end, one melting into another, and Wilson’s once again mapping every inch of House, tasting his mouth and cheeks and collarbones and pink hardening nipples, skin so thin that the blood vessels can be seen through it. He runs his lips along the veins, lingering here and there, recording every erogenous zone, contentedly listening to House’s accelerating breath and heated sighs, making them both eager for more.

With one hand he pulls out a bottle from the bedside table drawer, a little awkwardly as he continues to kiss his lover’s face all over, warming the lube in his hands before reaching for House’s groin, the palms of his hands spread the gel on his erection, his balls, nudging his legs apart to reveal his opening.

House eagerly moans into his mouth, letting his tongue in, and Wilson feels himself getting harder again, and he's a little amused and ashamed of his own greediness, but then his mind is taken over with a noisy and pretentious desire, not leaving space to any other sensations. He continues to stroke House’s body, lingering more and more at his hole, loosening the muscles until House relaxes around his fingers. He bathes House’s face and neck with kisses, gasping for air in excitement, and House joins him with his own sounds in a sensual chorus; it's passionate and slow and loving, and neither of them knows when will this happen again or whether it will happen at all, so they have to make the most of the present.

"Wilson… oh, Wilson…" House is releasing soft little cries of pleasure, his hands gentle on Wilson’s shoulders, fingertips rubbing the muscles of his back, the ridges along his spine, tracing the love handles on his waist, the firmness of his buttocks; and Wilson is already painfully erect from the way House reacts to his touch.

He needs it so much it hurts, and oh, he’s scared, so scared.

_Were you this afraid, too?_

"Put your legs around me." His voice is barely above a whisper, and then muscles clasp his waist, one thigh stronger than the other, and he caresses his lover with his hands, with his lips before pulling away to look in his eyes, to see trust, fondness, excitement in them.

He’s trembling as he holds himself in place, planning to go slowly, for a moment just listening to the wild thudding of his own heart, looking in House’s face, an encouraging little nod granting him permission; and Wilson swallows hard, holding his breath as he enters him at last, tenderly sliding in further and further until he’s immersed in his lover's taut, heated flesh; and House groans and embraces him, lifting his hips to take him in even deeper. Wilson’s nape is grabbed and pulled down for a kiss, and the intimate heat of the other man’s lips is almost better than the lust pulsating in his loins. 

He tried this before with women, but it never felt like _this…_ this hot, this tight, this _raw_ …

"Oh God―oh God, House…" he rasps in his ear, eyes screwing shut in rapture, unable to think, lying down onto him, feeling House's breathing on his own chest.

_Did you feel this amazing, too?_

House relaxes his muscles, and when Wilson feels it, he drags away slightly, then pushes in once again, nearly deafened by their joined panting.

"House… I imagined it like this," he’s panting breathlessly under House’s touch on his skin, lying down onto him to plunge into his heat, to taste his sweat. "Oh… just like this…"

With one hand he finds House’s erection, trapped between their bodies, and begins to caress it in time with the slow pace of his hips; and House grunts, the remnants of tension evaporate to give place to the promise of pleasure. His sighs, his gulps for air becoming more rapid and shallow, and Wilson pries his eyes open to watch House lying under him, sweat-matted hair sticking to his head, completely opened to him, his moans indicating that his body enjoys Wilson’s body; he is pushing back against him with tough, long thrusts, perfectly matching his rhythm, and Wilson rocks into him and lets himself be rocked, floating on the foams of his desire and his love, in the dark blueness of House’s gleaming eyes, the sight of his face, twisted in abandon and enjoyment.

"Yes… Wilson, yes…" House gasps, his hands eagerly prowling over on Wilson’s shoulders, his sides, his back; and Wilson would never have dared to wish for anything more wonderful, and seeing him losing control nearly blinds him with lust.

He hears his own voice as if it belonged to someone else as he’s urging House on with incoherent words, "you’re perfect― House, I want you― I want you…" And there is House’s caress on his face, unexpected but strangely endearing, he turns his head to kiss his palm, and a thumb slides into his mouth, and he bites it gently, sucks on it eagerly; a throbbing cock in his hand, an obscene piece of art, panting in his ears, and Wilson’s now thrusting with increasing force…

" _Wilson…!_ " House calls out suddenly, like in warning, all of his muscles tense in approaching release; and Wilson watches, his hands grip him harder, begging him to let go, _yeah, House―come for me, beauty―show me;_ and House is sobbing loudly as the ecstasy takes him, his cock spasms violently in Wilson’s hand and his seed spurts out in thick, pulsating stripes, soakig his stomach, his chest.

_Was it this hard to hold back for you, too?_

"Oh, fuck… oh fuck―" Wilson chokes, gritting his teeth in an agonized effort to restrain himself as he watches House’s orgasm wash over him, but then tight muscles clamp around him, and he’s no longer able to hold back, and with a final, brutal thrust he sheathes himself deep in House’s body, throwing his head back as he tumbles over the edge after his lover, falling into dark depths and infinity; and he thinks he cries out _I love you_ in his desperate passion.

 

Their sweaty, satisfied bodies stick together with slowly fading panting, lips meeting, hands twining.

"Did you just say…?" House’s murmur in his ear.

Pause. He swallows, embarrassed.

"I guess I did."

"I see."

He releases an unbelieving chuckle.

"Weren't you aware of this?"

"’Course I was. I just thought that you didn't… love me that much."

His caresses become trembling.

"How much?"

"I don't know… To be with me." Pause, touch of fingers. "I supposed you didn't want to be with me."

He's still pressed to House’s side, his voice muffled in his neck, and he’s thankful for it.

"I didn't dare to." A deep gulp of breath. "But I dare now."

Silence, a tensing of a hand.

"Why do you come only when you’re lonely?"

The caressing stops.

"Why do you push me away when you’re lonely?"

"I don't want it."

A sting in the chest, his face falls.

He sits up abruptly, leaning on one hand, looking at House’s face, who’s staring persistently at the ceiling.

"What? Why? Don't _you_ love me?"

Silence.

_Love?_

House lips part, but almost no sound leaves them.

"I―"

The beating of a heart becoming lower, deeper.

"You don't love me."

"This is… not about that."

He feels like his lungs are filled with water.

"House, I’d―" Another deep breath. "You… you _define_ me. I meant what I said. I want to be with you, and I know at least a part of you wants it, too. Yeah, I made a mistake back then, probably other ones, too, but… let me try!"

"Wilson…"

Rising in volume.

"Just… damn, just give us a chance!"

Sudden silence, sharp as a cliff.

It takes ages for House to speak again.

"Wilson, I'm… I'm not Amber. I'm sorry, but I can't replace her. And I don't want to."

Tightening of a chest.

"What? This has nothing to do with Amber…"

A gaze so, so sad it makes his breath hitch.

"Doesn't it? You were having conversations with her just a few weeks ago!"

He can't say anything to that. He wants to reach over and stroke House's face, but he's unable to move as House speaks again.

"I don't want to compete with her memory. She'll always be perfect in your head."

Tightening of a throat.

_House…_

That deep voice continues relentlessly.

"Yeah, we’ve slept together, and no, it won’t change anything. We both screw up our relationships in the end, and I don't want this to become something that could be screwed up. I don't want to lose― this. You."

The clenching in his throat makes his voice break as he tries again.

"We could handle being together! We have handled shit, and what bigger shit could come…?"

House finally looks at him, and their eyes meet, hot and huge and stinging.

"You shouldn’t be with an addict. That's what I’ll always be! I will mess it up, and then I won't be able to keep you." Silence. "I don’t want you to take care of―"

"Then why are you here?"

Silence.

"Why. The hell. Did you come here."

House’s gaze trails off him. "You looked different today. Happy. I guess I…"

Wilson begins to chuckle like a maniac, and he’d almost surprise himself if he gave a damn.

"Must have been my _charm._ "

House looks at him with a cold flash in his eyes.

"So you’re the only one who’s allowed to initiate sex when he feels like it? You looked happy, and I liked it. You could have said no! How should I have known that you want―"

_God damn it!_

"And weren't you interested why I looked happy? So is my dick just another object of your neediness now?"

"That’s not true! Never occured to you that I might be here because―" A few deep breaths as House tries to calm down. "Whatever. You know as well that we’re… better off as friends. We can handle that."

Despair.

He grabs House’s hand, cold and sweaty under his touch.

"House, trust me, _please,_ don't be so fucking scared!"

"I’m so sorry. You’re better off―"

 

House just gets up to leave, slipping out of his hand, and Wilson sits up, watching his back as he’s gathering his clothes.

House looks back in the doorway, and their eyes meet, just for a second; but then he steps out and quietly closes the door behind himself.

_This has to be a dream, just a fucking nightmare._

But the sudden cold feels too real, too deadly as it hits Wilson’s shocked face, and he doesn’t realize he’s still quietly whispering, pleading, _no, please, no…_

 

He looks at his face in the mirror the next morning, staring into his own foreign, exhausted eyes, clouded by freshly found helplessness and lonely pain.

His fists hurt. He vaguely remembers banging on House’s door for what seemed like hours, uselessly begging for him to come back, to stay, not even minding that he’s making an idiot of himself.

The third time was natural and necessary like drinking after a marathon, the joy of bathing under a waterfall, rocking softly on a water mattress, the way it always should have been. It should have been floating instead of drowning.

He’s realized he's still in love, he’s in love again, but it's too late.

He crouches on the floor, his fingers dig in his arms, his whole body shakes, and his tears taste bitter like seawater.

 

Later, he tries to talk to House again, but he sends him away, as kind as he can manage, but still making it clear that he meant what he said. Wilson clearly sees that he’s suffering, too, but it doesn’t matter.

So he keeps up the pretense, trying his best not to damage what’s left ―friendship should be enough, shouldn’t it? He understands House after all, doesn’t he? House _is_ right, isn’t he?―, though his hands shake every time they are close. If House is able to pretend that everything is okay, everything is _normal,_  then so is Wilson, even as he wants to punch him in the face and yell obscenities at him. Even as he wants to beat him up and kick him until he’s a whimpering, bruised mess on the floor. Even as he wants to run his fingers through his hair and kiss him all over, all night long. Even as he wants to spend his life with him.

 

So when he gets a call from Sam, he clutches at her like a drowning man. And that’s what he is.

They meet, and he takes her out on a dinner. It’s not bad, they are having fun, and he almost forgets about him for an evening, he almost feels cheerful. And when she kind of unexpectedly kisses him, he decides he’s willing to ignore her past betrayal. It was ages ago, and most people are able to change. He doesn’t stop to marvel at the irony of his life.

And after a while, when it seems they might work this time, he asks House to move out. It makes him feel relieved; and who knows, maybe now he will have children, a family of his own after all. He’ll need the space.

 

And then Cuddy happens.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally finished this chapter!!! It was way more difficult than I thought.  
> Sorry for the sudden angst--trying to flow with the canon.


	4. Fire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The fourth time it happens, they haven't seen each other in a year.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for rape mention and a sort of role play-y stuff.  
> I've used all the clichés in the world, and I regret nothing.

House had left without a word, not telling him where he'd gone; and Wilson was fed up, and had no idea what to do, what he felt anymore. He turned out to be not enough, useless, unable to stop House from destruction after all.

And he would never confess all those times when he was so awash with despair and the absence of him that he had to wipe off his tears, remembering the last time, never admitting how much it meant; and wouldn't confess all those times he almost dialed that number, he almost drove to the prison, but anger, disappointment and the lingering pain in his wrist made him stop.

He'd finally decided to move on, to get his life together, again.

But he would never confess that he'd been waiting.

 

He would never confess that when he first saw him after a year, his heartache flared up and his body immediately betrayed him, and he had to fight to keep a straight face as his pulse sped up and he stirred in his pants despite all the confusion and worry for his patient, and he had to force his expression to remain calm and impassive, but those rape jokes leaving House’s mouth didn't help.

 

He didn't know what to feel when House told him that he liked him. _Liked!_ He had no idea what he wanted to hear, or if he wanted to hear anything at all, but that surely wasn’t it.

And he certainly wouldn't ever confess that after their encounter he went to his office, slammed the door closed, threw himself on his sofa and yanked his trousers open to violently jerk off; yes, he touched himself for him, spitting in his palm before taking his cock in his hand, feeling how it hardened immediately, his thighs spreading as wide as they'd go. It was brutal, angry, frustrated and rough, he traced the veins and squeezed his balls, rubbing and smearing the leaking, translucent beads on the tip of his erection; it chafed dry and raw, the pressure was burning and stinging, and he moaned as he unceremoniously started to fuck his fist.

He couldn't help it, he was imagining House's face and his broken gaze and their shared past with gross satisfaction and half-guilt and a hint of pain, and all the memories of themselves, the weight and meaning of their relationship mingled in a crazy vortex of flashbacks of hiking and LSD and monster trucks and women and almost-deaths and his enabling and the contrast of the colour of their skin in the mirror and the taste of House's kiss and his body and those times when they had made love, and those times when they had been happy.

But suddenly he got annoyed, even as the aching pleasure begun to build, and he tried to distract himself instead, to think of the last woman he'd fucked not so long ago, outside of a bar on a drunken, lonely night, standing in an alley like horny teenagers, her warm body against his, pretty and blonde and slender, his ideal, perfect woman. She seemed fascinated with him even though he’s not exactly young anymore nor as handsome as he used to be, and her devotion filled him with pitiful, cheap smugness. He remembered hiking her skirt up as she'd fumbled with his zipper and pulled him free, and then he’d somehow managed to put on a condom even as she was kissing him frantically; then he’d shoved her against a brick wall, tearing her blouse open, licking and mouthing at her soft, vanilla-scented cleavage, freeing her nipples and hungrily sucking on them, relishing her moans; he remembered how he’d spread her legs with his knee and pulled them around his waist as he lifted her up, yanked her thong aside, not bothering to take it off before driving into her, and soft wet warmth had embraced him, her hands had hold onto his shoulders and torn his skin, her voice sexy and demanding and high-pitched and completely not what he’d wanted to hear while mechanically thrusting inside her, his legs tensing under their combined weight; and his hand tightened around himself at the memory that was still hot but pathetic, and frustratingly not enough.

"You useless fuck," he groaned in a low voice as he swirled his thumb over his swollen glans, certainly not thinking of House, the way they would kiss, sloppily and brutally, the plunging of a warm tongue deep within his mouth, tormenting him, whetting his appetite, calloused hands sliding in his hair, knowing exactly what he loved; and he pressed two fingers of his free hand to his lips, trying to imitate a kiss, then slid them into his mouth and sucked wildly. No, he wasn't thinking of the roughness of House’s skin, the texture of his hair as he ran his fingers through it, wasn’t imagining how it would feel now that it was this long, and his toes curled and his hand moved to caress his thigh at the thought he wasn’t thinking, the thought of pushing House's head down, the scratching of stubble on his balls, the touch of that soft tongue sending pangs of ecstasy along his nerves, those reddened, bruised lips teasing him, tightening around him, the way House looked like with his mouth full of Wilson’s cock. He wasn't imagining the pressure of that wet throat, the sight of those eyes flaring blue at him before fluttering closed with lust; and as his pleasure was crawling along his body, he certainly wasn't choking out his name, but he had to bite his lip not to cry it out loud as his hips were rising off his sofa, faster and faster.

And he couldn't bear it anymore and finally gave in, freely picturing House moaning in delight and sucking him harder, House caressing his thighs, House pressing a finger against his opening; and Wilson groaned and pumped frantically into his fist, his belt dug into his flesh as his legs were parting even more, and he cupped his balls, so firm and heavy, his hand moved lower to push the tip of his slick fingers inside himself, imagining House spreading him, stroking him there with his hands, with his _tongue,_  and he wailed at his dirty fantasy before gasping with red-hot pleasure, abruptly spilling himself into House's envisioned mouth, his whole body shaking as his come was spurting, flowing between his fingers, and he arched and growled helplessly, letting it wash over him before finally going limp, panting heavily, not nearly halfway satisfied.

He wouldn't confess that he hasn’t really been turned on by anybody ever since House left.

He didn’t want sex, he didn’t want a date, he didn’t want love.

He didn’t want anything.

 

But House hasn't given up on him, he kept stalking and practically wooing him, being a pain in the ass, and that was the last thing he needed when his patient he liked so much was dying.

 

It’s late night, and he’s just finished checking upon her before heading home when House follows him into his office, staring at him with those miserable, longing eyes that are usually just for the show; but Wilson can smell the real need from miles like a bloodhound, and his anger flares up once again, for House and for himself and their fucking screwed up life, all the misery and crap they've been put through. That goddamn infarction, it shouldn't have happened.

Goddamn New Orleans.

"Wanna talk to you," House says, but Wilson's not interested in what he might say, what could he say that might mean anything after he left without a single word, and he directs his wrath towards him, it's so damn late and he's so damn tired and nobody is there and “Why don't you let me go home?"

"You know I’m your home," House chants, unsuccessfully trying to hide… _things_ behind sarcasm and irony. It’s not funny at all.

"Don’t be ridiculous." Wilson wants to go, but House shoves his cane across his chest that makes him come to a halt, and repeats what he said, that he likes him and wants to spend time with him and wants to be his friend; and it must be difficult for him to say things like these, but Wilson hardens his heart.

"Oh no, House, I've had enough," he smiles in bitter anger, and he repeats that he doesn't like him, biting in his tongue.

“I like this part," House says with blazing eyes, “when you pretend to hate me."

_Asshole._

“Guess what, I don't have to pretend," Wilson says, fumbling with a document on his desk to avoid looking at him.

House steps closer, also angry now, he smacks the papers out of Wilson’s hand, and snaps at him to grow up and stop talking bullshit; his lips move arrogantly around his words of double standard, and his deepened, hoarse voice makes Wilson shiver and his hair stand on end, and the scent of musk and testosterone and deodorant hits him in the face, intoxicating, jolting straight up to his brain through his nose, igniting sparks in his convulsing stomach; and he grabs House and shoves him against his poster on the wall.

The cane falls forgotten on the floor, its loud crack is mixing with the soft thud House’s body makes.

"Leave me alone!" Wilson struggles for self-control as his lips draw up to bare his teeth. “I'm fed up with this. With you. It was so easy, so good to be while you were locked in, I could finally _breathe!_ "

"Oh please, don't act like you're so happy now!" House sneers at him, not giving a damn about Wilson's hand clenching involuntarily around his throat. "You're lonely without me, no matter how many nurses throw themselves at you, or how many pretty cunts you fuck!

Silence.

"Screw you," Wilson says, stunned, trembling, "screw you. I don’t want to save you anymore. I don't want your friendship. I don’t want you, I want my life back I had before I met you!"

They stare at each other.

“You had nothing, and you know that," House says quietly, face contorted with anger and hurt, and it sobers Wilson up a little. He shakes his head as he loosens his grip.

"What do you want from me?" he whispers tiredly, studying the wallpaper next to House’s shoulder.

"I’ve told you."

The answer is so simple.

"Yeah, and what do you want me to do, huh?" Wilson snickers. "To let you steal my food, let you invade my privacy, watch you destroy yourself or almost kill Cuddy, let you break my bones, let you leave without a word, what?"

"Everything you can give, anything," House answers, voice calmer now, yet still provoking, needy and begging; he’s playing with him, pulling his strings as always, a fucking puppet master, it's maddening, and Wilson wants to tear his own hair out.

"Go home, House," his lips say, but even he can feel his whole body screaming the exact opposite. The man is in his veins, under his skin, attached to his nervous system, why the hell can't he purgate him out of his life!

"I’m not going to watch you run away again," House says, not taking his eyes off him, blueness burning into brown.

He’s unbearably close now, Wilson can see every line of stubble, every scar and fresh wrinkle, see how dilated his pupils are in his darkened eyes; his penetrating gaze cuts deep, seeing through him, slicing him open; and his face attracts Wilson like a magnet, his mouth is watering, overwhelmed with the need to pull on House's lips with teeth, to lick his cheek, to bite, to ravage, and he's slowly losing his mind.

"There’s nothing I wanna give you," he manages to lie through his teeth with his last shards of willpower across the few millimeters that still separate them.

"You pathetic liar," House whispers on his lips, voice low; his words, the scent of his breath set Wilson on fire, and he can't take the tension; there's a sudden click, the dam of sobriety in his mind is burned to ash, and nothing matters anymore.

"You want _me?_ " Wilson says in a thin voice as he lifts his hand to House’s face, shaking with restrained hunger, thumb brushing over his cheek before he finally slides his fingers in his hair. It’s so silky and slippery with hair gel, he yanks it when House smirks in victory for a second, and he sinks his teeth in his revealed neck, his tongue washing the pain away, gliding along the rustling stubble; and House’s skin is salty and warm, his throat vibrates as he moans, a loud, decadent sound of years of longing, and it makes Wilson’s blood fizz and his groin ache.

And then he bruises their lips together, and oh, it’s so divine, he's licking at House’s teeth, he bites, their mouths swell and slide on each other's, their taste mingling, and House’s tongue feels warm and huge as it relentlessly fills his mouth, and Wilson is hungrily sucking on it, all the while stripping the jacket off House’s body.

House moans around their kiss, stroking Wilson’s back, his ass, yanking the lab coat off him, pulling his shirt out of the waistband to touch hot, enflamed skin; and Wilson is chewing on his lower lip, he lets himself be stripped, his buttons torn open, his tie hang ridiculously in front of his bare, heaving chest.

But then he rips their lips apart, whispering, "I'm not giving you anything, I'm _taking_ what _I_ want," and he turns House over by his shoulder, shoving him down and leaning onto him, trapping him between his body and the desk.

"Yeah, fuck yeah, rape me," House whispers as he leans on his elbows on the table, pushing aside pens and pads and papers, playing along that he succumbs to him.

"Beg me to do it," Wilson hears himself asking, even as he hikes up House's shirt to his armpits and traces a line along his spine, digs his fingers in his narrow waist before reaching around to rub the warm hardness, damp under his palm, and a thrill jolts across him at the touch, a dark, dark lust. He tears open his own zipper and pushes the pants lower on his hips, listening to House fumble with his own clothing; and House’s desire for him makes him pant so lasciviously it’s almost embarrassing, but he can't help but drink in the sight of the other man’s naked skin, the way the muscles move in his back.

They don't have anything but spit, and he sucks on his finger before pushing it into him, and the sound of House’s sharp gasp penetrates his ears and sends pleasure down his loins. He's admiring House's ass, watching his finger disappearing inside, and it’s mesmerizing; he’s going straight for that spot, eager to make House feel good; and he gets what he wants, House groans loudly when he finds it, pushing himself back against his hand, his prostate swells under Wilson’s fingertip.

"Tell me you really want it," Wilson asks him again, because even now he can’t help the way he is; he’s panting against House's nape as he replaces his finger with his slick, oozing erection, slowly sliding it between those buttocks, obscenely nudging, stroking the opening with the head, amazed for a moment at his own dripping wetness; and a part of him hopes that House has more common sense to say stop, but the major part wants, _needs_ him to say go on.

"Please―" he hears an answering whisper.

"You want me?" Wilson asks once again, breathlessly, not quite aware of his own words anymore, "you want to be used by me?" His hand sneaks to House's naked groin, tracing protruding hip bones, firm thighs, caressing taut balls, threading through hair, finally finding his erection again, hard as iron, and House gasps as his fingers spread and squeeze; and the touch is oh so satisfying, holding his lover’s silky, stiff cock in his hand, noting the length and warmth and slickness, and he hears themselves both whimpering. He keeps tormenting him, stroking lightly, scraping a fingernail along the slit, swirling a thumb on the head, all the while gliding his cock against House’s ass.

"You fucking bastard, do it already," House moans and trembles, pushing into his hand, making delicious longing sounds that send jolts of pleasure through Wilson’s loins.

"Then I’ll use you," he rasps, and he grabs the base of his cock and plunges inside; and he can't think anymore because oh God it’s hot and painful and _oh House finally I missed you I want you_ he wants to say, but the words clog in his throat. House grunts, maybe in pain or pleasure, he smells so nice and he's hot and slick, so tight and lean and gorgeous and screwed up and so _fucking perfect,_  fucking wonderful, it burns and it hurts and Wilson can't help but cling to House’s waist, whining like an animal in heat. His hands stroke, re-explore the muscles of stomach and pectorals, his fingers open to feel more skin, hard buds of nipples poke his palms, House’s ass pressed to his groin, his chest is dampened by House's sweaty back as he’s sliding in deep, all the way inside.

He stills, hearing their heaving breaths synchronizing, hearts racing together, and he’s slowly going mad with years of restrained longing. _Why do you let me do this if you go away, why don't you send me away, why did you leave, why don't you tell me to stop,_ useless, useless questions swirl around in his mind as he leans his forehead against House's nape; that long hair smells of scalp and hair gel and pheromones and _House,_  he never forgot his scent, he inhales deeply, getting high like a miserable heroin addict having his portion, hair caresses his nose, and his tongue flicks out to taste wet salt.

House reaches back and awkwardly pulls him closer, they stick together as he slowly begins to move inside him with long, luscious thrusts, relishing House's throaty little cries, filling him, the caress of silky inner walls makes him moan unrestrictedly against House's trembling flesh, his mouth open and his eyes closed in delirious, possessive trance.

"Yeah, you love my cock… like I love yours," Wilson whispers into House's shoulders, reaching down to make sure House enjoys it, and yes, his erection twitches at his touch. "Oh yes, you love getting fucked… my― beautiful―" His low voice is muffled by the bites and licks he plants on House’s skin as the delight is building in the pit of his stomach, and he's listening to the obscene, wet slapping sounds of their flesh.

House trembles at his vulgar words, groaning hotly, desperately, "fuck yes… yes, use me―" and Wilson's thrilled by his pleasure, he wants to make him feel even better as his hand digs between House's thighs.

 _This doesn't mean anything,_ he thinks, _doesn't mean anything,_ his other hand roams and prowls over House’s body, savouring his scorching skin, it feels like touching an angel, _doesn't mean anything,_ he keeps repeating it like a mantra, even as House is arching his back to meet his thrusts.

"Tell me you love it," Wilson growls so low that House can barely hear, grimacing with lust as he’s setting both of them on fire with his words, “ah God, yes, say that you love my cock in you―"

"I love it… I love― oh f-fuck me, make me come―" House gasps raggedly in answer, like a filthy, obedient man-whore, his voice breaking, and it’s so maddening that Wilson wants to devour him whole, and he's sweating, his own wheezing is deafening in his ears.

 _This doesn't mean anything,_ he thinks as he speeds up his thrusts, getting rougher and more brutal, grabbing House’s hair, pulling his head back, yanking him to his lap. Their grunts become more desperate, and he leans his cheek against House’s shoulder, staring blankly at House’s fingernails whitening as he holds onto the table while Wilson gives him all he has, all of himself, except his love, because he couldn't bear not getting anything in return.

 _This means nothing,_ he still tells himself, but House’s groans are getting so loud they erase everything else out of his mind. "God yes, it's good, I’m yours, I’m―" House chokes, clearly not aware of his words any more than Wilson, "I’m your slut… come inside me, come, I wanna feel―," and Wilson shivers and whimpers and he doesn’t even have to stroke House’s cock anymore, House's body is pushed forward into his fist with each forceful, desperate thrust. Wilson rises onto his toes, his calves tensing, his whole body trembling, and House’s hand covers his and tightens and they stroke him together; and Wilson is lost in the familiar pulsating in his groin and his thighs, it’s so good, so filthy and sinful, he groans and sneers together with House…

But then he’s distracted by a sudden, sharp cry and the convulsions of House's body, and hot semen spills over his fingers, muscles clench rhythmically around his cock, and House is coming violently in their hands and _oh yes give him pleasure,_ and then Wilson’s also crying out, a shout bit into House’s neck, his arm clasping him tight as he follows him, emptying himself with powerful spurts deep inside House's rippling flesh; and House is panting beneath him as they keep each other from collapsing, and this moment is more perfect, more wonderful than anything he’s ever felt.

 _This means nothing, nothing,_ Wilson wants to think while gasping for air against him, clinging to his hips, his wet face sticking to House’s shoulder, even as he knows it’s a lie, and having House like this feels like heaven, it feels like home.

 

"This doesn't change anything," he says to the empty air after they part, and he winces at how stupid he sounds.

"Yeah, let’s keep telling that to ourselves," comes the low answer from House's direction, still facing away from him, still panting from the aftermath.

Wilson wipes and zips himself, and escapes without a further word.

 

And he wouldn't confess, not even to himself, that House is all he wants.

He is _everything_.

 


	5. Earth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> By the fifth time the ground is already gaping for him.

Spots are hovering on the field of his vision, grotesque amoebas of yellow light inside a half-closed coffin.

Wilson’s watching the flat pass around him to a melody only he hears in an acid trip, a slow motion trance. A place where he’s spent so many days and nights, the place where he thought he’d spend many more years. The furniture is merging into black and dark green, an unreal, artificial forest. Sounds and voices of mechanical creatures sweep inside from behind the windows, the brown stripes of wood are hard and slippery under the soles of his feet.

House’s hand is sweaty and cool around his fingers.

His socks slide a little, and his senses are more sharpened than ever to the surreality his mind creates.

House guides him to his bedroom.

Wilson doesn't really remember why, his brain is short-circuiting, sparks fizzle along his neurons as he’s watching the silhouette of his friend, the movements of his steps, the way he limps. He feels like he sees him for the first time.

They’ve probably tried to get drunk. He doesn’t feel drunk though.

There are no words, because every word would be unnecessary and inappropriate. He’s looking at House's back, feeling wasted and high, but not with inebriation, not with euphoria. He’s drinking in the sight as the light from the street dance on House’s shirt-clad shoulders, his graying hair, his left arm stretched backwards, towards Wilson; and he tightens his grip.

Passing through a door, House’s gaze cast back at him for a brief second, but he can't read anything out of it.

The bed is soft as they sit down onto the edge of the mattress, still without saying a word, releasing hands now.

House is not looking at him, he’s staring into nothingness beneath his feet; and Wilson is regarding his profile.

Soft thudding in his ears, thud, thud, thud. His heartbeat. Their breathing.

House’s presence is the only thing seeming real now, even as he’s acutely aware of every sensation, every sound, every scent.

His own heart begins to pound faster as he hesitantly lifts his hand to touch House's nape.

The touch of each thin strand of hair bending under his hand.

House abruptly turns towards him, like a frightened rabbit, and Wilson dips his fingers into his hair, stroking, soothing, comforting.

The skin of House’s neck as he slides his hand lower, and gently squeezes.

House closes his eyes at the caress, slightly lowering his head, and Wilson watches.

The sight of his face. He's observing the netting of wrinkles, how deep they've become since he looked at him for the last time for real. The last time he dared to look at him like this.

The curve of an earshell under the nerve endings of his fingertips.

The quiet, snuffing sounds of breathing.

He’s seen his friend in many passionate and vulnerable states, but just once like this. In a hotel room, in blue half-light; only there he was so raw and frightened. When it began. That feeling… their first time together, the immediate simplicity of connection. The perfect match. The natural unison. The memory fills him with warmth, and he smiles to himself, just a little.

He listens to nothing but his senses.

The darkness of the room changing the colours, small, amorphous spots of orange light on grey hair, faintly lit by the street lamps.

The warmth of his own breath as it radiates back from House's skin, House’s closed eyelids fluttering as Wilson breathes a kiss on his cheek.

The prickling of stubble on his mouth. The shape of a jaw, the tensing tendons in a neck against his fingers, the shape of a cheekbone under the gentle pressure of his mouth.

The scent of House’s body. His hair. His skin. His breath.

His own shaky, uncertain inhale.

This is _him._

His flawed, horrible, devastating, sick, miserable, irresistible, wonderful love.

But they are both sick. And he’s ready to give into this sickness.

Wilson wants to kiss every imperfection, every sign of age, every scar mapping his love, speaking of the life he’s had, a life they could have had. He’s laying kisses on his nose, his cheek, his eyelids, his temple; and House holds his breath before exhaling sharply, like he were hurt. The tip of Wilson’s thumb brushes over House’s lips, over the dry, slightly chapped texture, his caress pulling down a lower lip ever so slightly, revealing the whiteness of teeth.

 _Look at me,_ he wants to whisper, yet no sound passes his throat.

But House opens his eyes, and Wilson dives into them, the puddle of black pupils, dilated with emotions, icy blue irises, and he gasps at the glistening shade of red; he’s still caressing his face, softly scraping the lines of stubble with his nails, and loses himself in those eyes for a few moments.

Then he tilts his chin.

A kiss on the corner of House’s mouth.

Pulling back, a questioning gaze.

And then their lips meet.

Without anger. Without despair. Without drugs. Just with the longing and affection that he can't suppress anymore, and doesn't want to.

His mouth opens under the slight caress of House’s tongue, and a low, yearning moan escapes him.

God, how he tastes…

And House takes him in his arms, releasing a desperate growl between Wilson's lips; and all he can feel is the hotness of House’s body, his solid form, the incredible sensation of his touch; they hold each other tightly, too tightly as their kiss deepens, and for a few blessed moments, neither of them is afraid.

They part, and House looks into his eyes; and Wilson nods, barely visibly.

House lets him push him down on the bed, sliding next to him, feeling the warmth radiating softly from their bodies. Wilson can hardly see in the dim light, but he can see the paleness of House's face, the fevered gleaming in his eyes, and that's enough for now. They lie besides each other, chests separating with every damp exhale on the other’s face, touching again with every inhale.

House is slowly stroking his cheek with the back of his fingers, and Wilson slips an arm under House’s neck to pull him even closer, and they tenderly rock into one another, bodies touching all over, legs twining, lungs taking in the smell of skin, the smell of hair. Wilson lets his lids close as his forehead touches House’s, the rhythm of their breathing surges him into a slumber-like calmness.

Before long, their lips meet again in a series of soft, silents pecks, and Wilson never wants them to end, ever. Just the tender pressure, just warmth, just the soft sounds of kissing, and House is humming sweet things to him he rather feels than hears.

House caresses him, and his touch ignites memories in Wilson, making him gasp as he lets his emotions flare up in him. It’s so good, he wants to be smoldered in it, and he smiles and kisses, and House smiles and kisses him back. There is too much to feel, it’s overwhelming to be happy and devastated and scared in a good way, in a bad way. Wilson’s dizzy as his hands are prowling over House's body, and he wants to sleep, he wants to scream, he wants to laugh, he wants to melt into House’s mouth and kiss him forever, he wants to die right here, right now in House’s arms…

But suddenly it turns too black, it’s too much to lose, the end seems so near, a clock is ticking in his ears, countdown of the remnants of his life; and the pain becomes too real, his chest tightens and he’s sweating and trembling and panting, clutching at House like he could save him, desperately gripping his shirt, his widened eyes meeting his. He doesn’t want to die, he doesn't want to leave him alone, it’s not fair, they used to have a future together and now it’s dissolved to nothingness, and there were so many things yet to do and experience, places to see and words to say and memories to make and experiences to share; and as he realizes he won't be able to feel, to touch, to love anymore, he sobs and his fingers sink into House’s flesh; and House squeezes him to himself, murmuring soothing nonsense into his hair while Wilson shivers and whimpers in fear, crying with the ugly sobbing of a frightened child, tears burning his eyes; but House holds him together through the night, rocking him until the demons fade a little, and he finally, finally falls asleep.

 

He can’t recall when the dreamless night blurs into awakening.

The first thing he can focus on is the feel of his hands tracing House’s skin on their own.

Diving up from the depths, and his world gradually widens; there’s warmth on his chest, the strength of an arm around him, humid breath on his face, sound of inhales and exhales, so familiar by now, so unusual still.

His senses are rousing one after another, skin pricking inch after inch along the path of House’s hands.

When time is running out, he has all the time in the world; and he gives himself to the slumber, not opening his eyes.

He can’t recall when his fingertips begin to draw feather-light shapes on thin, thin lips, when his mouth begins to trace lines against warm skin, when the breathing he hears begins to get deeper.

He can’t recall when a brush of lips to a cheek becomes a series of kisses showering onto his face.

When time is running out, he can pay another visit to the universe, to observe the matter and the energy, the circling planets and supernovas; or he can stay on this Earth to embrace its reality, breath in the wind, drink in the sea, heat up in the dance of the flames, taste the metal of blood.

Minutes are merging into hours, hours into days, and time is running out.

"I want to be with you every day of my life."

Whispered murmurs of a dear voice, feeling it on his own throat, on his collarbone, like buzzing of a stone foundation deep, deep inside the Earth’s crust. Opening his eyes to the light, seeing nothing but the honest, questioning, endearing smile of the one he loves, and he lets his fingers bury themselves in short, grey hair, pulling close so their smiles melt on the other’s lips.

Elastic strain builds in rocks that rupture suddenly, rebound eagerly, and he throws his head back at the caress, feeling his love and his need for House burn stronger than uncertainty, brighter than the fear of death.

House’s fingers are intertwined with his, sending warmth and comfort along his nerves, into his heart. The taste of skin, salt, pores, cells, atoms, formed from the same material as the stars. Biting into a lip, the taste of flesh like iron, iron created in the outer space, the wet warmth of a tongue.

Soft shaking, lightly trembling vibrations arise when House bares him in a way he never let anybody else to do; House is opening his shirt ever so slowly, like he were opening up his ribs to take a look at his exposed flesh, his vulnerable heart; and Wilson gasps for air, letting House take him on another ride.

When time is running out, he can dance surrounded by the trembling pieces of the earth, among collapsing buildings and breaking walls. House is there, passionate and broad and hard under his hands; and tectonic plates are moving, breaking, burnishing, but he can laugh through destruction, he can let his voice mingle with the roaring of the crashing glass as House plants fevered kisses onto his skin, biting into the flesh of his shoulder, tracing Wilson’s mouth with his fingers.

Electricity sparkles inside his spine, along the path of naked touches, sudden and stinging like the spark that created the primordial life in the ancient sea. It’s sweet, agonizing happiness to be dissolved in House’s unrestrained love and despair, it’s wonderful and terrifying now that he’s free to love, they’re both free to love, it’s so tragic that they are free to love when it’s much later than they’ve ever thought.

House’s mouth is hot and ever so careful on his bare chest, he has a hold on Wilson’s bloody, raw, beating heart, his tenderness burning and hurting him; his love always hurt him, but the agony pales in the light of House’s soul, in the shine of his being; and Wilson can call out in the wind as House covers him with his own flesh, House crawls inside him, and he can crawl inside House, into his mind, into his soul with a freedom nothing else but decreasing time can give.

"I’ve wanted to be with you all my life."

It’s his voice that utters the words now, and the temperature is rising, sweat is breaking out of their pores, making the rubbing of their bodies slicker, more pleasurable, more intimate. His naked chest is sliding against House’s, his legs circle around his waist to pull him to himself tighter, holding onto the only stable point in his world, what he always was, what he always will be, and his hands are mapping the muscles, the joints, the skin, not getting enough, not getting ever enough.

"Even before I met you…"

Kissing his lover’s marble-carved flesh, all of him, everywhere; the fine hair on a thigh, the tendons of the bend of a knee, the hardness of a ribcage; he can lose himself in the rhythm of whispering and pleading words, the undulation of hips against hips. Shining of sweat, coarse, damp hair scratching, life blooming from the dust, trembling and quaking and shaking in a dark, dark dance, a desperate waltz as shooting stars are falling from the sky, and the Earth’s crust is dry and crystals are forming as House is devouring him.

Another kiss, again, again, forever; and House’s skin is salty and sour, his arms are muscular and strong, his voice rasps like grains of sand under his teeth, his nails scratch his lips as Wilson's tongue plays around a finger, his teeth capturing it in a playful, hurtful game. Stubble rustling on his own as House rubs his cheek against his, tenderly, lovingly, even as their hips are grounding together.

And now he’s watching, all along the burning rapture in his heart, he’s watching House above him. The flowers of flush blooming on House’s face. His face, his eyes, locked into his, his features changing, contorting in want, in need, in longing. House is moving against him, rhythmic rubbing, lips parting, panting in every exhale, gasping in every inhale. Soft, whimpering noises caress his ears, and through the tunnel of his own pleasure, Wilson is just watching him, holding him tighter, squeezing him to himself, running his fingers through his hair, watching, whispering as House’s face twists and his body begins to shiver, eyes still never leaving his for a second. And Wilson feels the pressure building and the climax rocketing through his lover like it was his own, and suddenly it’s getting difficult to breathe, he’s tearing up as he’s whispering to him through the groans and the fading waves until nothing remains but their slowing panting, slowing breathing, and only then he allows his eyes to close, only then he lets himself be lost.

When time is fading, it becomes meaningless.

But House is there for now, giving him life and energy, and they make love like this over and over, clawing after the last crumbs of life and passion, feasting on the shadow-fantasies of what could have been.

Pushing his love under himself now, claiming him in another deep, earth-shattering kiss, the spurting of hot magma from the belly of the earth, scattering ash and pebbles and black dust, and House is rocking against him, scorching and rigid and fluid like molten lava, he’s melting between Wilson’s legs, his kisses burn Wilson’s body; and Wilson draws a sharp breath, letting his fingertips dig into earthy flesh, inhaling his smell, the smell of hope tearing asunder the smell of death on his own skin; he’s rubbing against his lover like he could purge him, the pleasure mounts as he's running his hands on sweat-soaked flesh. And House cleanses him of rotting and decay, he's crying out sharp little sobs in Wilson's arms, kissing Wilson's shoulders and collarbones and his chest, sucking the flesh as he’s frantically lifting his hips, sucking, making it hurt and bleed under his skin, biting at Wilson’s pectorals, his nipples, his midriff, sucking, licking, biting…

"Don’t stop," Wilson’s gasped plead is heavy with sharp pangs of adoration and breathlessness in the damp dusk of the room, and he feels the borders of his ego decaying, the chains of his mind breaking, shock waves propagate like ripples from the epicenter, decreasing in intensity while traveling outward; and he’s melting into House, deep into his love, whispering hoarsely about how he feels about him, how he doesn't want to let him go ever again, not afraid to say it anymore, not afraid to hear it from him anymore, and he’s not going to run away again, ever, not because there's nowhere to run, there is _nowhen_ to run, but because he’s found where he belongs.

When you’re counting down to zero, you don’t have to be afraid anymore.

And he’s gasping as House is squeezing him, his legs and arms are so, so tight around him, tight enough to hurt, his whole body hurts and his whole body is burning with pleasure in House’s heated embrace. House’s teeth are sinking into his chest, breaking his skin like he's out of his mind, and he probably is, he licks Wilson’s flesh like he could suck the illness out of him, like he could bite it out and swallow it and take it into himself instead; and Wilson is wailing in pain and ecstasy and love and both of their despair, he clutches House’s head to himself, "harder, bite harder," he chokes, and he’s coming and crying out again and again in a trance that’s nothing like he’s ever experienced before. House slicks his tongue against his wounds, wraps his hot, wet body around him, and Wilson’s trembling and crying and wheezing, and doesn’t mind that he’s going to bear scars; he cries _I love you_ and _please_ and _more_ , meaning everything, meaning _please save me, please love me back, please be happy, please remember me,_ he welcomes the pain and House’s marks, because the pain of his body is more endurable than this burning agony in their souls.

Then time ends suddenly, unexpectedly as everything becomes one swirling black hole of singularity, and rapture that’s beyond physical is igniting embers inside his eyelids, and he squeezes House and takes him with himself one more time, and his mind is full of House and white light as sweat, blood, tears, spit and semen are mingling on their skin; and as he’s groaning House’s name, the only name he knows, he faintly hears him quietly sobbing onto his open wounds.

A moment of singularity has passed, the molten earth is becoming solid. The heat is slowly tamed to warmth, clouds are forming, rain is creating oceans. Magma is oozing out of open craters of earth-flesh, and they are lying on top of each other afterwards, so ridiculously naturally. So pathetically belated. So meaninglessly. So meaningfully.

"I…"

So many things can be put into a single sentence.

"I want to spend the rest…"

There are so many more things he’s unable to press into that sentence. What he means to him.

"…with you."

That he wants him to be the last thing to see, the last thought to have.

And sometimes everything shifts into order again without effort.

"Okay."

This is the only answer he gets, but it’s all that matters.

He lies on his back, looking at the ceiling, listening to House’s evened breathing, the feeling of their fingers locked.

Maybe… maybe he should try again.

For him.


	6. Antimatter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He has dreamt about more elements than five.

The translucent line of the galaxy arches over the curve of the sky dome, shattering to billions and billions of small, shining points. The whizz of the wind is dark and otherworldly between the heavy leaves of the trees, blending into the chirping of the crickets; and Wilson gasps for air.

His eyes are staring blankly at the light of the half moon, comets and glistening bugs mirrored in his irises. His fingers are buried in soft, thin hair, playing with it gently, absentmindedly, his other hand holding onto the protruding muscles of a naked shoulder, his pupils trying to swallow the light that's reflecting back from House's silver head.

He feels heat, he feels his love burning in his heart, keeping him sane, keeping him alive, and House is making love to him on the highland of a mountain, below the infinite sky.

Wilson hears his own throat releasing short, pleading whimpers, his chest heaving with the ecstasy jolting up and down his spine, and House is covering every inch of him with damp kisses, warming up his skin in the cool night air, devouring him, savouring him, using each second they have to fondle and taste him, the inside of his thighs, the lower part of his belly, the length of his cock… His mouth is soft and wet and giving, just perfect. He's perfect… he's everything.

Wilson's hand trembles on House's scalp, he's arching and losing himself, his lips are forming gentle, passionate, loving words in an incoherent amalgamation of _please_ and _yes_ and _House_ , and just when he thinks he can't take it for another second, he's released and enveloped in an embrace.

House lies on top of him, panting heavily, kissing Wilson's neck and his collarbones, licking him just below his ear that makes goosebumps break out on his skin. House smells so excruciatingly wonderful, Wilson wants to bite him and mark him like a predator; and through the feel of House's hands in his, the pleasure rocketing in his loins, as he's sliding against a body he can never get enough of, he's briefly marveling at the beauty of the night sky above House's head, at the mesmerizing, endless depth that mirrors the depth of those blue irises.

The cool caress of the breeze on his skin merges with House's rhythm, and Wilson's eyes close as he twines their fingers, blindly searching for the mouth of his love, letting their moans blend together in a kiss made out of open sky and starlight, tasting himself, tasting House.

"Oh, your lips, as they're kissing mine…" House whispers when they part, leaning his forehead against his, "can't get enough…"

Wilson's heart jumps a little in joy, because he loves the way House makes him feel like they were discovering each other for the first time. There is always something new to experience… The feel of being wanted, being _worshipped_ by this man, after all this time, is raw and unbelievable, it still makes him dizzy and high. He locks his eyes into House's, seeing love, trust, desire there, everything he's ever longed to see.

"I'll give you more," Wilson whispers, kissing him again, "I'll give you more…"

House could ask for _anything,_ and he'd give it to him… Anything.

He lets his arms and legs circle House's back, pulling him close even tighter, burying his face into the sweater and shirt he tucked up to House's shoulders in his hasty desire, smelling musk and dust and skin and mountain air. House is pushing his hips into Wilson's more urgently, more impatiently, and Wilson grinds upwards, groaning in sweet despair as his hardness rubs against House's between their warm, naked bellies.

"I'm yours," he whispers in House's ear, feverishly nibbling his earlobe, "I'm yours, take me…"

House exhales sharply in answer, trembling and shaking.

"Fuck yes, come on," he breathes onto Wilson's cheek, running his hand through his hair, "come, ride me…"

Wilson shivers at his words, suppressing a way too eager and lustful moan; he nudges House over and crawls into his lap, finally pulling the sweater off him before throwing his arms around his neck to get better access to his skin. He's rocking back to House's slick fingers as they slowly prepare him, make him gasp for air, trembling and ready.

God, yes, finally…  Finally. He can hardly wait anymore.

Then, at last, House's hands are on his hips, gently guiding him, and Wilson is pushing down, sliding, gasping, opening up for him.

"Oh yes… yes, like this," he whispers in pure enjoyment and satisfaction, twisting his hips slightly, slowly, until House is deep inside him, hard and huge and burning…

"Wilson― fuck―" House's voice is shivery and tender in his ear, his hands hold onto his waist; and Wilson's listening to their mixed groans, trying to catch his breath through the ecstasy of House being buried in him like this. Oh God, how that feels… how House's muscles move under his fingers. How he smells. How his neck tastes… How warm his body is… Wilson wonders whether drinking from his mouth will give him salvation, and he throws his head back with a dazed, breathless laughter as strong arms wrap tightly around him.

They stay like this, motionless, just sensing each other through heavy breathing and heated embrace, through joined bodies and connected souls.

House is so beautiful, so exquisite, his face painted silver and pale by moonlight and lust and vulnerable love. Wilson shivers under his gaze, he listens to the raggedness of his breathing, and he can't help but cup his face, smiling at him in happiness; and House smiles back, lifting his hand to stroke his thumb over Wilson's lips. There's a universe up, up above him, there's another universe below him in House's pupils, and Wilson plunges headlong into it as the flames of his soul flare up.

House bares his throat for Wilson’s kisses, offering it for him to take in return, all of himself, all of his life, gasping as Wilson's teeth possessively close over his Adam's apple. His name is resonating in House's throat under his tongue, that deep, deep voice caressing his name like the waves of the ocean caress the shore; and incoherent, pleading whimpers fill the air and tear into Wilson's ears, making him shiver until he can't bear to hear them anymore, the feeling of becoming one is too intense, the promise of even more pleasure yet to come is too tempting.

He lets himself go, slowly beginning to move in House's lap, feeling his body envelop House's, his fingers dig into the cool, moist grass as he leans back, revealing himself for his lover, letting him guide him, take him wherever he wants; and he groans in abandon as House's tongue swipes over his throat, his collarbones, his hard nipples, his hands run all over his shoulders, his taut stomach, the inside of his tensing thighs…

"House!" he yelps when a hand wraps tightly around his cock, and he's meeting House's short, forceful thrusts, his nails digging into sweaty flesh, "oh God…!"

House is unbearably hot, his muscles are strong under his hands, the carnal rapture blends with the intensity of his blue gaze, making Wilson feel like he's being hypnotized, but he can't take his eyes of him as he's pushing down more urgently… They're rocking into each other, faster and faster, watching the other's face, listening to each other's moans getting louder and louder, and Wilson hears himself begging House to stroke him harder, panting loudly in his pleasure for his lover and for the world to hear.

And then House groans, he clasps Wilson and hugs him so tight that his breath hitches, and he feels him thrusting upward deep into him, once, twice, hard, pulling Wilson's hips down before going motionless; and Wilson gasps as his childhood name passes House's lips, the tenderness and pleasure in it is enough to push him over, his cry echoes loudly among the peaks of the mountain as House plants slow, open-mouthed kisses on his neck.

After, he lays House down, covering him against the cold with his own body, putting his head on his chest, the wild racing of his heart thudding on his cheek.

Oh God, does he even deserve this? This perfection of a sappy romantic movie? _Just the way it should be,_ he thinks, grinning like a lovestruck idiot, squeezing his eyelids tight when tears blur his vision.

House's body is sweaty and cool as they stick together. It's real… It's _real_. A thumb is stroking Wilson's back, and he's dazing off for a few minutes, surrounded by the sound of crickets and wind and House's breathing that has become more familiar by now than his own.

 

_He has dreamt of more elements than five._

_He dreamt morphine dreams of light and dark, he saw them both behind closed eyelids while drowning in salty water pouring from his pores, as he was cremated by the fire burning his flesh from the inside, as air bubbles stuck in his lungs beneath his ribs._

_He felt the metallic tang of lonely dreams, the constant flavour of copper in the back of his throat, the grains of earth grinding under his teeth._

_He dreamt about the cold pinch of a needle in his arm._ _He dreamt dreams of agony of disappearing, becoming nothingness, merging with the fractals of the universe once again. He dreamt about the tranquillity of the vanished pain, the fear turned to dust, because once he was showed what's beyond, and it won't be unfamiliar when he sees it again._

_He dreamt of being in darkness, speaking about regretting the choices he made, not getting an answer, not expecting any. He heard the ticking of a clock, the muffled sounds of a car over the square of a window, or maybe the sound of the ocean. Perhaps he was in a hotel room he'd been in before, but he couldn't remember, it was not important anyway._

_All that time, there was only one thing in his mind._

_He dreamt about the memories of feverish denial, desperately trying to be normal, pretending…_

_Pretending he's not in love._

_And he's dreamt of a relationship. A marriage that could have been. Isn't it stupid, dreaming of raising kids together? He can still remember the ghost of a laughter leaving his lips at the thought. He dreamt of having a son, about the boy that was not his son, the memory of how scary it was, how good it felt, how he wanted_ him _to help him raise his son. Sometimes he also dreamt about a girl, a baby girl with huge eyes, blue just like_ his _._

_He dreamt about the sough of curtains in the breeze, low thudding of heartbeats, the shift of a weight next to him. Soft breathing, a feather-light touch on his face. His fingers finding a hand so well known, so familiar._

_He heard himself telling things._

_That he's always wanted this man to be happy, this man who made his life extraordinary. Worthwhile._ _That his love won't fade, ever. That it won't go away._

_And he heard a voice answering him, about how he was loved in return. About how much happiness he gave._

_He dreamt of strong arms clasping him to a warm body, of feeling loved, and that was all that mattered._

_Then, he dreamt of dying in House's arms._

 

Wilson's startled from the verge of sleep by House's shivering, and he reaches for a sleeping bag to wrap it around themselves as much as he can with House stubbornly lying tangled around him.

"Your moans were so loud, they've scared away the bears," House murmurs into his ear, grinning sleepily, and Wilson grins with him.

"At least they didn't bite in your ass. Or mine."

"Great, I prefer my dick not bitten off."

Wilson's snorts a little as he’s trying to cover them. Damn this sleeping bag. He can't find the zipper, and House is clinging to him like a leech, nibbling his ear.

"You're not helping here."

"Don't care. You'll warm me up with your pretty body, won't you?"

"Move over, I can't warm you up when my knees freeze to the ground."

Wilson lies on his back when House finally lets him go, getting comfortable, pulling House’s arm over his chest. He's looking up in peaceful silence, thinking, feeling.

"The sky is beautiful tonight. I think I saw a few satellites. And maybe some bats."

"You were watching the sky while we were fu―, er, making love?" House leans on his elbow, wearing a way too dramatic, stunned expression. "Man, I have a nerd boyfriend!"

"No, I just notice the little pretty things―

"As well as the big pretty things, like this bad boy here," House interrupts him, pressing his crotch against his hip, and Wilson rolls his eyes.

"―and it's not like you weren't even once trying to solve a medical case while we were having sex. Like, at all."

"That… might have happened once." House makes a face when Wilson raises an eyebrow. "Maybe twice. Maybe."

"You were mumbling 'Prader–Willi' so enthusiastically that for a moment I thought you were fantasizing about some other guy! Yet I'm the nerd. Nice."

"Come on, that was the most interesting case we’ve had in a year! It's not like there were any _real_ stuff to deal with, since, you know. Since we're on the run. Just _peasants_ here and there, runny noses and chickenpox…"

House grimaces in disdain, and Wilson feels a pang of… guilt? Sorrow?

"I'm sorry if you're bored. This isn't what I had in mind…"

It's been quite a while actually, way more time that either of them expected. And neither of them was prepared for _this_.

"Oh shut up." House nestles closer to him, and gratuitous happiness surges across Wilson at the gesture. "You’re still not boring. Never will be." He grabs Wilson's butt just to ruin the moment. "And don't think that this is affection. I only cuddle because my ass is freezing."

Wilson grins happily at the other man.

"So romantic. Shouldn’t we get back to the tent? It's gonna be cold in the morning."

"No, I'm too damn comfortable here."

"I bet you're just avoiding our postcard collection your mom sent." Wilson snickers at the thought. One of the postcards has labrador puppies tangled in white and blue ribbons on it, and it’s Wilson's favourite. "The last one’s deliciously hideous. ' _Marriage is a relationship in which one is always right and the other is the husband.'_ Wow. Perhaps she took it a little too personally that we didn't invite her to Vegas―"

"Trust me, the tigers would have been too much even for her. Move over, my arm is falling asleep."

"Too much even for us. That's why we cancelled it. Ow! Okay, just… push your knee right up my crotch, it's totally fine."

"Oops. I’m still fond of that idea, we could still marry there! You would be hot in tight leopard pants…"

"Over my unconscious body."

"Buddy, you keep provoking me. You forget that's never stopped me before."

"I stand corrected: over my corpse. But that would be too morbid. By the way how does she always know where we are? Maybe she put a GPS in my bike.

"Never underestimate maternal ingenuity." House grins. "Now gimme the heat and let me sleep. Gotta get up early, I've always wanted to see the sunrise from a mountain. It's a bucket list stuff."

"You? A night owl? You keep surprising me."

"Well, I'm not boring either. Ooorrr I might be lying, and I just want you to shut up." Wilson pokes him in the ribs. "Ow. And about that… if you were boring, I'd find a way to get rid of you in no time. I run faster than you."

Wilson smirks. "Fine, I’ll marry you."

“You want to make it difficult for me, don’t you.” House hugs him, kissing into his neck.

Wilson closes his eyes, relaxing into the quiet with a deep sigh, thinking of life.

His life just as easily could have ended boring, his world tightening with only one other person in it. But instead, it opened wide, and he was able to taste and experience things he never ever dreamed of.

_"Okay."_

_It was what House said._

_"Okay."_

_It was what Wilson said._

He decided to try it again - just one more time. (He knew he loved him too much.)

And in the end, it seems like this time he made the right decision. Isn't this goddamn ironic?

And now he's happier than he's been for a long, long while now. He's made more out of the last year than the previous forty-six, exploring, hiking, riding the bike until his butt hurt and House cursed because of his leg, meeting people and trying out new foods, not needing to worry about more serious things than where to repair the bikes or which steak to choose for lunch.

He’s happy. It doesn't mean that _it_ won't come back though - he's quite sure it will eventually, and when it comes back, it will be harder to handle than ever - but why worry about what hasn't happened yet? He's insanely grateful for each extra day they've been given, and goes to sleep every night feeling so much gratitude that his chest wants to burst, so much that he simply cannot get annoyed by anything. Not even by House, who still likes to test the waters.

He's happy. Even if sometimes they fight, even if sometimes he gets flashbacks.

Even if he sometimes thinks he could turn back. To his previous life. To his family. To security. To his job, his everyday routine.

When it’s getting worse, he could go back, unexpectedly, run away without a word, leaving only a message and the happy memories behind. That would be the most rational thing to do.

And he knows that he couldn't do that. He couldn't go back, ever. He couldn’t leave him again.

He couldn't leave his family.

_In sickness, and in health._

He rubs his eyes; he's really tired now. But not of life, never of life. Life will never be exhausting again, but he still needs to sleep. They'll both need the energy.

He dozes off for a moment, expecting anything but…

"I love you, you know."

A voice so quiet in his ear he almost thinks he dreamt it. If he weren't so sleepy, he'd sit up straight in shock. Instead, he just abruptly turns towards House, who looks at him with a lazy, almost apologetic gleam in his eyes. Like he knew he was thinking of him.

"Wha―?"

"Told you I'm not gonna say it unless you fight."

They rode off a year ago. And he chooses this exact time. The bastard.

"Just… wow." Wilson wants to laugh and cry and smack him, but instead, he asks with his eyes still wide open, "would you… would you kiss me, House?"

"Since when do you need to ask?" House mumbles, leaning over him, his mouth touches his in a slow, tender kiss, lips fondling, tongue caressing his ever so softly, and Wilson wants to lose himself in it.

It still feels like the first one. It’s perfect.

When they part, he reaches up to trace House's smile with a finger, never able to get enough of him.

House has galaxies in his eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The end!  
> I hope you enjoyed my fic! It was a loooooooooong and tough trip. I wrote the first 6x5 line drafts exactly a year ago. Wow.  
> I intended this to end angsty at first because of canon and stuff, but then I thought: fuck it, they've suffered enough. It felt right this way, giving them a little more time together.  
> Thank you all for your lovely comments and beta'ing and READING! You're wonderful. <3


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